Sometimes You Do
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: All that mattered was that Rory Gilmore was slowly, painfully, finally going home.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Sometimes You Do

Summary: All that mattered was that Rory Gilmore was slowly, painfully, _finally_ going home.

A/N: Okay. So. Here it is. This fic is REALLY long and will probably take me ten years to post, even though it is complete. This is the latest installment of the Redemptive!Dean verse, so if you're not a fan of Dean Forester, you might want to turn back now, especially if the notion of Dean/Rory squicks you out for whatever reason. I make no promises on how this story ends up in terms of their relationship, but it explores it quite thoroughly over the next 40 chapters or so. (Yes, 40, I am that wordy.) If anyone wants a detailed clarification on the timeline of this verse, I can try to put something together, but I'll just say this is a future fic set after the end of the show (by maybe about four years or so) and it takes place about a year after the last fic in this verse, which was the lovely "Summer Project" by sendintheclowns.

A/N 2: This is a long piece, so I have a decent list of acknowledgments. First, thanks to geminigrl11 for a fast beta. It was a remarkably effort and I appreciate it greatly. Second, thanks to Piratelf, who gave me a thorough read through to make sure that the story arc made sense and worked. Her insights were greatly useful and improved the story a great deal. Now she just needs to finish her own fic... And last, but really not least, sendintheclowns is basically the reason I write. She humors me, she plots with me, she reads my work time and time again. She's my cheerleader, my slave driver--my _everything_. I have been working on this piece for well over a year now, and I'm sure she remembers every up and down I've had with it. This fic is _because_ of her, and so I dedicate it to her utter awesomeness, which she shares with me day after day (after day!).

A/N 3: This chapter is slow, I know. But it's a 40 chapter fic. Exposition has to occur! Please, indulge me, just a bit :)

Disclaimer: So not mine.

-o-

Part of her wondered if she should have traveled by plane. It would have been faster, after all, and after years away from home, it wasn't like she didn't have plenty of experience. She even had some frequent flyer miles, but the airline was incredible stingy about those, and when they tried to tell her that flying to Alabama would be much nicer than flying to Connecticut, she figured it just wasn't worth the effort.

Or the money. Not that money was _really _an issue. She had money, her own and her grandparents. In fact, at the mere mention of being homesick the last few years, first class plane tickets had showed up in her mailbox nearly instantaneously. Apparently, her homesickness paled in comparison to how sick her home was for want of her.

Okay, yes, that was a self-centered way of looking at it, but really. With grandparents like hers, it _was_ true. Her mother was a bit more subtle about it, but it held true there, too.

And either way, after four years away from home, she missed it, too. She missed the low-traffic streets, the eccentric group of people who made up the microcosm that was Stars Hollow, the way that everybody knew everybody and how she had a _usual_ down at Luke's Diner. Well, not exactly a usual, since her usual was variable from day to day, but usually Luke always knew to bring her coffee, just the way she liked it, even if he groused about it. Which, really, was all that mattered.

Life on the road, life in big cities--it was so _anonymous_. That was why she'd left the campaign trail to begin with--it had been exciting, yes, but Rory found that her small town background gave her a low tolerance for excessive excitement. Besides, not knowing what city she was in day-to-day, and sometimes even moment-to-moment, made her slightly schizophrenic.

The job in question, the one she'd quit--or had been fired from, depending on who she was telling--had settled her in Detroit, which wasn't as far away as she could have gotten from Stars Hollow, but certainly far enough. The San Francisco Chronicle had offered a position, but that was too close to Logan, and the Detroit Free Press simply offered her more variety in what she wrote. Front page articles. Even the editorial, from time to time.

It wasn't quite the _New York Times, _but it was a solid career-maker. But, even with her name in print, no one cared about who she was or what she did. It was rather a change for her, this sudden lack of prestige, and she liked to think it wasn't just her ego that took a hit, but her need for companionship. She didn't care if she was famous; she just wanted to be a _person_ sometimes.

Which was maybe why she was coming home. That and the fact that she'd sort of quit her job.

Sort of, as in completely and totally. As in, she'd had a meltdown in the office and told everyone how wrong they were and how real journalism wasn't just cold hard facts and that the problem with the press today wasn't bias or sensationalism but a lack of connection between the people and their constituents. All very true, all very noble. Very Jerry Maguire in the best sense. She'd shown her boss the money, and he'd pretty much shown her the door.

Not quite _fired,_ but told to leave if she couldn't shut her trap and do her job. So she quit, citing irreconcilable differences. Part of her thought her boss should care.

He didn't.

Her mom knew, so her grandparents knew, but the town didn't. So flying seemed like too much of a huge affair. And, besides, it would cost a fortune to have her stuff shipped cross country. Because she had stuff. Plenty of it. Even with a room full still at her mother's house, it was remarkable how much she still had collected.

Also, she'd never rented a truck before. And how hard could it be? Sure she was spending an arm and a leg on the diesel fuel for the thing, not to mention the ridiculous daily price to truck all the way from Michigan. But it was an adventure. In the truest sense of the word, since she really didn't have a great sense of direction, nor did she have tons of experience driving stick.

And so she was afraid to get out at rest stops during the night and had taken out one drive-thru sign by neglecting the height of her vehicle. But that was what insurance was for, wasn't it?

It didn't matter. None of it mattered. All that mattered was that Rory Gilmore was slowly, painfully, _finally_ going home.

What happened next--well, that was anyone's guess.

-o-

It was just like it always had been. Simple, homey, familiar. Stars Hollow. Forever and always.

Her windows were down and her radio was blaring. All in all, a good way to finish this leg of her journey--at least roads that she knew this time around, which helped her avoid the multiple "detours" she'd been taking throughout her trek. And Connecticut was just pretty. Prettier than the flatlands, prettier than the industrialized cities. It was just pretty. And scenic. And _home_.

She was even mildly proficient with the standard transmission by this point, which was good. She was tired of killing the engine when traffic backed up behind her. She figured that traffic was probably pretty tired of that, too. Though that was supposed to be their problem, that didn't save her from the embarrassment.

After all, she was an adult. A fully capable adult who simply struggled with something like a stick shift. Totally normal. Sane people bought automatics anyway. Besides, with the journey so close to an end, her driving capabilities (or lack thereof) was really a moot point.

Needless to say, she was dirty and she was tired and she was glad to be home.

Her heart felt warmer just turning onto the familiar streets of Stars Hollow. People she recognized were milling about. Doing their normal business. Just like she'd never left.

That was the appeal of this place. The appeal and the reason she'd probably wanted to leave. Routine was safe; it was also boring.

Which was why it was good to break away from and just as nice to come back to for a reprieve. Until her situation was sorted out, anyway. She just needed to update her resume, regroup, and figure out which adventure was next for her. Maybe global traveling. Green Peace, perhaps, though they probably wouldn't be thrilled to know how horrendous her gas mileage was on her trip out here.

But something. Something new and grand and noble and wonderful. Because life was hers and she was going to take it for all it was worth. She didn't even need a plan, even though the whole concept of going without one went against her nature. Not knowing what came next was not her way, but she was changing. Growing up. She could do this. She _was_ doing this. Just let Stars Hollow see her now. They'd sent her off in style, and she would come back to them and they would see her as the success story they'd craved all along.

And they did--see her, that is. The success part, maybe not quite yet. Because she was hardly turned onto the main street of town when her truck spluttered--once, twice--before giving a horrific cough, and died. Smoke hissed from the hood and when she turned the key and pressed the clutch...nothing.

It was dead.

Deader than a doornail._ Perfect_.

At midday, the entire _town _would see her there, sitting upon her truck of glory. The rumors would be flying before she even got a chance to call her mother.

Even as she was thinking it, there Taylor already was, a little grayer up top than usual, same stuffy fashion sense, same zealous way of moving as he charged onto the street in partial awe and partial horror.

"You can't park this here!" he cried. "You'll block all my customers!"

"Hi, Taylor," she called, smiling and waving and ignoring him entirely. It hardly seemed worth the effort to explain that his customers all _walked_ to his store and that they all knew where it was, anyway, so her blocking the sign wasn't actually that big of deal.

"But you _can't_!" he exclaimed. "I know you've been away, but surely you remember!"

She pushed open her door, clamoring out. Her legs felt stiff and there was a crick in her back. "I think I kind of have to," she explained. "I think it's kind of dead."

A crowd was gathering, from inside the store, from surrounding stores. Whispering and wide-eyesd.

"But my _store_!" Taylor wailed.

She smiled sheepishly, tucking a strand of greasy hair behind her ear.

A ticker-tape parade, it was not. And it was exactly what she should have expected when she loaded the truck up. This was just the way life was for her, for people in Stars Hollow. It was almost reassuring in its utter awkwardness. Almost, but not quite.

_Welcome home, Rory Gilmore_.

-o-

"You couldn't just come in quietly, could you?" was the first thing her mother said to her when she entered Luke's Diner.

Rory grinned at her. "It wouldn't be very Gilmore-like of me, would it?" Rory said back, shrugging her shoulders. True, it had been slightly mortifying, but certainly not anything out of the realm of her experience. Not that she often had her U-Haul die on main streets in small towns, but she was used to finding the limelight unexpectedly. It sort of went with the territory of being Rory Gilmore, in Stars Hollow or otherwise.

Lorelai sidled into the seat across from her. "I see you've already gotten back into your old ways," she said, nodding at the cup of coffee in her hand.

"Never got out of them," Rory said. "Besides, it seemed wrong not to stop by since the truck broke down so close to the diner. I knew Luke would be thrilled to see me."

"Oh, yes," Lorelai said, looking over her shoulder at Luke, who was having a flustered exchange with Ceasar at the window. "He looks quite thrilled."

"He's just your typical guy," Rory explained. "Reluctant to show his feelings. The repressed emotions of American machoism. Not to be confused with the Mexican brand, which is, in fact, much more severe."

"More severe?" Lorelai asked, raising her eyebrows. "You mean there is a breed of man less communicative than Luke Danes?"

"It's a scary thought, but all too true," Rory said.

"So you mean my crush on guys named Pablo who are rough and strong is only because of a stereotype?"

"Of the worst kind," Rory supplied. "You are partially responsible for cultural repression."

"Now I have to turn my attention to Italian men."

"Ah, one cultural stereotype for the next. Sometimes, I forget where I am."

"Home sweet home," Lorelai said. "What are you going to do about the truck?"

"I thought about leaving it there and setting up home."

"I think the rental company might object."

"I could buy them out," Rory offered.

"How about you just get it fixed," Lorelai suggested. "You know, they've invented these crazy places called car repair shops. I'm not sure if you've seen them in your vast experience in the real world."

"Seen them, no," Rory said, taking a sip of her coffee. "But heard of them, yes. I just wasn't sure such aspects of civilization had reached Stars Hollow."

"Yes, even with our provincial ways, we have car repair shops. In fact, we even have tow trucks."

"Ooh, more than one?"

"I do believe there are two," Lorelai said. "Maybe three, depending on what Kirk's up to."

"Well, as I only have one truck..."

"Do you want me to call?"

Being grown up was overrated. She smiled brightly. "Yes, please."

"Ah, the joy of having a daughter," her mother said, pushing herself up from the table.

"You know you miss being needed."

"Right, since my entire identity revolves around motherhood," her mother said. "I'll call, but you're going to go in there and figure it out."

"Yes, ma'am," Rory said. "I will completely handle dealing with the mechanic myself. No problem."

Lorelai was moving toward the counter, to find a phone and a phonebook, Rory could assume. Lorelai didn't own the diner, but she might as well have, as much influence as she had on Luke. Her mother turned and looked at her, smiling one more time. "Welcome home, Rory."

And Rory couldn't help but smile back. If there was something she missed most, that was it. That warm, familiar feeling, that sense of love and security. So her mother didn't have home-baked cookies set out a little homemade doilies. It was still her mother, which meant more than anything. No matter how far she went or how much she learned, there was nothing like Lorelai. "Thanks, Mom."

-o-

By the time she'd finished her second cup of coffee and downed a doughnut, the truck had been picked up and hauled off, amid much fanfare of course. The crowd that gathered was as shameless as it was pathetic, all speculating on the vast amount of stuff Rory had acquired in her years away and why on _earth_ it was all coming back in town.

That pleasantly amused her as much as it not-so-pleasantly frustrated her. That Stars Hollow could care so much about _her_ was the feeling of home she'd craved. However, that feeling of being under the microscope made her wish she'd taken another route into town. She was not quite ready to discuss her reasons for coming back. Nor was she ready to answer the questions as to where she was going next. Because she didn't know.

She didn't know. She was Rory Gilmore and she didn't know.

How had that happened? After all her time working to get into Yale, all her time working to get out of Yale, all her dedication to a career, her future, the _plan_, how had she ended up back here? It was like a bad chick flick or an even worse novel where the world-wearied heroine finds herself inexplicably drawn back home.

It couldn't be her. It wouldn't. What would Paris say? What would her _grandparents _say?

She needed a plan. An escape route.

But first she needed to get her truck fixed. All her desires to get _out_ of the limelight aside, her bill from the company was going to be ridiculously huge if she didn't get it back soon. Dealing with such companies made her wish she'd studied math more. Not that she really liked math all that much--it was far too cut and dry, which was also its appeal, but there was never enough room for discussion. For debate. Rory like discussion and debate, so, therefore, she'd just have to pretend like she totally understood the rationale of the trucking company to charge her obscene amounts of money.

So, repair shop. Her car had been here once, at her grandfather's insistence, but then that car had been totaled--by Jess, no less, though it wasn't really his fault. At least not technically, in her mind, though everyone liked to blame him. How was he supposed to control the actions of random wildlife? And really, if Jess had just run the dumb deer over then she would have probably cried and been upset with him and they would have broken up sooner rather than later even though they weren't even dating at that point because she'd been with Dean. It was Dean's car, well, Dean's car for her, and he'd been upset--but the funny thing about all that was he was the one who was least worried about the car. All the time and effort he took to make it, the great measures he'd gone through to prove that it was worthy (to prove that _he_ was worth), and he'd never even mentioned the car after the night she told him she'd gotten it wrecked.

It was still the plainest display of love she'd ever received. Not just the car itself, but how he'd never expected anything in return and how it'd always just been about _her_.

Too bad she hadn't loved him. And too bad she no longer had the car (because, really, that'd been a pretty cool car).

But that was then. This was now. But maybe it was her circular thoughts about Jess and Dean and the car that made her see Dean the moment she entered the shop.

At first, she was fairly confident he was a mirage. Or a mind trick. Her overactive imagination creating the image of the last person on her mind. But there he was. Tall. Dark. Handsome. And greasy, yet surprisingly sexy in his jeans and gray button up shirt with the logo stitched on the breast-pocket.

If it was a fantasy, it was a good one and maybe if she looked hard enough, Jess would appear in the corner with a book and a cup of coffee looking literary as all get out and her daydream would be complete.

"You here for the truck?"

Rory jumped, startled. It was Gypsy. Stars Hollow's own down and dirty mechanic. She wasn't part of the fantasy, though Rory did think the outfit did things for her figure. "Uh, yes," she said. "The U-Haul."

She nodded across the way where the would-be Dean was disappearing back under the hood with some tool that Rory could not identify. "I wish I could have seen you drive it," Gypsy said with a shake of her head. "Small girl like you, must have been quite a scene. Your mother must be proud."

"Yeah, of all the things I've done, driving a U-Haul will definitely lead off her Christmas letter this year."

Gypsy just looked at her. "It's over there. I've got Dean working on it. Shouldn't take too long. But he can explain that."

That all sounded good until Rory realized that Gypsy had just said _Dean_. Seeing people was one thing--her imagination was pretty vivid. Hallucinating names? Not so much. Auditory fabrications were not normal, not even for someone like her.

"Wait, did you say Dean?" Rory asked, hoping to clarify her confusion.

Gypsy glanced at her blandly. "Yeah, Dean," she said again, nodding toward the tall man half obscured by her truck's open hood. "I know he's new here but I promise you he's got all the credentials you want. Too damn qualified to work here if you ask me. But he agreed to minimum wage, so who am I to question it?"

"Oh," Rory said, feeling oddly deflated. So it _was_ Dean. Her Dean. _The_ Dean. Working on her truck. It was like some weird case of deja vu, and really it wasn't going to get any less weird standing here or going of there and talking to him. Because she wasn't talking to _him_ but to a mechanic fixing her truck. There was a difference, right? There was a difference.

So she moved. Slowly and awkwardly through the melee of the garage until she was next to the truck that had been her home for the last week. She stood there, watching, waiting, looking at the long figure hunched under the hood and she was struck suddenly how it wasn't quite _her_ Dean anymore. Her Dean had never had arms like that.

Suddenly, he surfaced, wiping his forearm across his sweat-filled brow. It was exactly like some ludicrous TV commercial--for what, she wasn't sure. Maybe antiperspirant? A clothing line? The touch, the feel of cotton?

Then, he saw her. Of course, she was staring and staring with her mouth wide open to boot. His brow furrowed a little bit and then a smile broke across his face. "Rory?"

"Uh, hi," she finally said, shutting her mouth and smiling herself.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

Rory was so distracted by the deepness of his voice and the soft crinkles around his eyes that she nearly forgot to answer. "Oh, it's my truck," she said. "Well, it's U-Haul's truck. But I'm renting it. And it broke down. As you know. Since you're working on it."

He was nodding at her as realization settled over his features. He'd always been _cute_, which had been part of his appeal, but he'd never been quite this..._manly_ before. In fact, none of her boyfriends had. She'd always preferred the intellectual types, which was part of the reason she figured she'd never made it work with Dean. Dean was smart, smarter than he gave himself credit for, but the type of guy to sit around and contemplate the misogynistic subtleties of Hemingway, he was not. And Logan had been business-oriented in that aristocratic way that was sexy with a suit like he owned it. He could talk literature, thanks to his extensive education, but there was little passion to it. Of them all, Jess had been the most intense in his pursuit of literature in a very pure, if rebellious and somewhat Bohemian kind of way. But Jess hadn't cared enough to humor things like wearing suits, though, so that was a point for Logan.

Dean looked good in a suit, too, though.

Who was she kidding, Dean just looked good. Greasy, sweaty, manly and Rory found her heart racing.

"Well, you probably drove the poor thing to its death," he said looking back at the behemoth.

She just stared at him. "Oh. Well. I do seem to have that effect on mechanical devices sometimes."

Dean laughed and Rory thought her knees might give out. The depth of his voice, the curve of his smile--just _wow_. "Well, do you want to know the damage?"

She winced, her focus going again to the truck. Even Dean, in all his manliness, could not detract from the fact that her rental truck was still stuck in a repair shop. Not that it didn't make it more pleasant to hear and not that she didn't have rampant fantasies running through her head of it getting too hot in the garage, requiring Dean to remove his shirt and wipe his brow, the sweat glistening in the luminescent sun rays...but her truck. Her truck. She could finish writing her soft porn novel later. "I'm going to have to assume that's a rhetorical question," she said. "_Want_, not so much. Need to, very likely, unless I want to rack up a million dollar rental bill."

Dean, for his part, was oblivious to her fantasies. She couldn't decide if that was good or bad. "It's your clutch," he said.

"Clutch?"

"Yeah, the thing you use to shift gears."

"Oh. Clutch." She knew what a clutch was. Of course she did. How could she drive from Michigan and not know what a clutch was?

"Yeah, well, it's slipping, not holding a gear. If it can't hold a gear, then it can't go anywhere, hence the reason it decided to park itself out on Main Street."

She was listening, of course, well, kind of. She was watching him speak and following the nearly melodic rise and fall of his voice as he babbled car knowledge that completely escaped her. He could talk mechanics to her all day long if he looked like that.

He finally noticed that her mind was in left field. He cocked his head. "Does that make sense?"

"Clutch. Gears. Got it. How do we fix it?"

"Well, I've got to remove the transmission and the clutch assembly to get to the place I need to work on. Once I get it out, it's not so bad. But I will need to order the part. We don't usually stock clutch disks for trucks this size."

Rory was sure that this was all very important for her to listen to but she was still distracted by the image of a sweaty, shirtless and very greasy Dean, who, in her mind, was now smiling at her while slinging a wrench onto a low-slung tool belt.

"So, give it a few days and we'll have it good as new," he concluded with a rather triumphant smile.

It occurred to her, rather suddenly, that now was the time to respond. Preferably without reciting content from what would surely be a best-seller with repressed housewives everywhere.

Dean shifted awkwardly. "Check back in with us on Friday then," he said.

"Friday. Yes. Okay. Friday would be great. End of the week. Right before the weekend. Good way to end a week, checking up on a rental check. Nothing I would love more." Except of course, that _image_--

She mentally stopped herself. She really needed to focus. Moreover, she needed to act like the sophisticated, mature woman that she was and stop drooling over Dean like he was a piece of meat (a nice looking piece of meat, but _still_--).

"Great," he said. "See you then."

That was definitely something she could look forward to.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I'm glad to see there's some interest after chapter one :) I don't have much to preface this with except to remind you that exposition is a necessary thing for this fic and that some of the chapters are a bit on the short side for what I typically write, but it broke down well this way. Updates should be frequent, so you'll never be left hanging too long. Thanks for humoring me! Continued thanks to geminigrl11, Piratelf, and sendintheclowns. Other notes in chapter one.

CHAPTER TWO

Her mother was _gardening _when she got home. By choice. Overalls, trowel, the whole nine yards. There were even blooming plants to show for it. Perhaps miracles _did _happen. Either that or hell had surely frozen over.

"Since when do you garden?" she asked quizzically.

Lorelai looked up at her from under her ridiculously floppy hat. "Since two years ago," she said. "It was slow going at first, and even Babette was pretty sure I was hopeless."

"Even Babette? The same Babette who gave you plants three Easters in a row to try to make you start a garden?"

Her mother nodded regretfully. "We even tried dyeing my thumb green one year just to see if it would take, but not such luck. But I've found success recently."

"How's that?" Rory asked.

"Well, I stopped killing them mostly," Lorelai said.

Rory nodded, matter-of-fact. "That usually helps."

"Did you know there are sun plants and shade plants?" her mother asked. "I had no idea at first. Apparently, some plants _like_ the sun. Others like the shade. Finnicky plants, just like the world full of finnicky people. It's like they're going to a restaurant and trying to order their meal: a nice batch of dirt, a side of Miracle-Gro, and hold the sunlight."

"Are you sure finnicky is a word?"

"If you'd met my plants, you wouldn't care," Lorelai replied simply. "I mean, like our good friend, the hosta, for example." She nodded to the plants she was working on. "Hostas thrive in shade. They're also very hearty plants. Hard to kill, which is why I lined the side of the house with them. Sadly they're also one of the most overused plants in all America. Every other house has some."

"Repetition is never good."

"No, but plants that you can't kill are. The lesser of two evils." Lorelai stood up, stretching, looking at Rory fully. "So, what'd the mechanic say?"

"That I should never be allowed to operate large vehicles again."

Her mother winced. "That bad?"

Rory shrugged. "I think it just needs some tender loving care," she said. "Though you'll never guess who the mechanic was."

"I'm just going to assume this is a trick question--"

"Dean."

"Forester?"

"No, the other Dean," Rory said with a roll of her eyes. "Yes, Forester."

Her mother opened her mouth and shut it, like she was going to say a lot more than the simple "Oh" that came out.

"Just 'oh?' No, 'how is he? What's he up to?'"

"Well, based on what you just told me, I figured he was up to being a mechanic."

"True, but there's more than that. Don't you want to know more than that?"

Putting her trowel down, Lorelai sat down on the steps. "Seems like you want to tell me more than that."

Rory's shoulders sagged and she sat down next to her mother. "I thought he went to college. I mean, I thought he was going to a good college, getting out of here."

"He did," her mother said.

Her mother said that far too knowingly. In fact, looking at her mother, it seemed like she was holding out. "Okay, spill. What do you know?"

"You act like you care."  "You act like you don't."

"A bit defensive, I think. All that time driving make you think fondly of your exes?"

Rory rolled her eyes. "You know, if you're not going to tell me, I'm sure I can find someone who will. Someone who gets to the point far quicker than you do and tortures me less."

"Okay, okay. Deny a mother only joy," Lorelai relented. "He graduated from college--"

"UConn?"

"Yep. And, so, he's got his degree and he came back home to help out the family."

Rory cocked her head. "Help out the family? With what?"

The good humor on her mother's face faded. "His dad had a heart attack. Pretty bad one. So I guess Dean came back to help keep the stereo shop going until his dad could get back on his feet."

Rory waited. "And? And what else? That's it?"

Lorelai shrugged. "What more do you want? You have tension and drama and family commitments all right there. Much more and we're talking, like, epic novels and stuff. Maybe even a Lifetime movie."

"So why is he working as a mechanic?"

"Well, probably because he has a mechanical engineering degree."

"But why there? What's he going to do next? How long is he staying?"

"You know, you could always do the unthinkable and ask him yourself. You should know by now that the town gossip is not the best way to keep informed."

Rory sighed. "I know. But it's Dean."

"Exactly," Lorelai said, clapping her on the shoulder. "It's Dean. Do they not have men or something in that far off land you've been calling home?"

"They have men," Rory said.

Lorelai smiled. "Just not men like that."

Her mother, perhaps, had a point. Though Rory couldn't say for sure. She'd been so focused the last couple of years that boys hadn't been on her mind all that much. There had been a few dates every now and then but there was still that lingering feeling of _Logan_, and it had taken her a good year to stop thinking about him whenever she was by herself or late at night when she woke up from a dream.

She'd gone so far with Logan. Gotten so close. She'd loved him. And yet...

He wasn't the one.

Jess hadn't been the one.

Neither had Dean.

So, why here, why now...why _Dean_?

"It's just nostalgia," she said finally. "I didn't expect to see him here."

Lorelai stood up. "Just keep telling yourself that, sweetie," she said.

Rory narrowed her eyes at her mother as she disappeared inside. Because really, she _hadn't_ expected to see him and she certainly hadn't expected him to look like _that_.

So, her mother gardened and Dean Forester had turned into a man without her knowledge.

Wonders never did cease, not even in Stars Hollow.

Rory could only think this was a good sign.

-o-

She needed a job.

That was her latest revelation. It wasn't so much a revelation as a natural progression of realization. Leaving her previous job had been self-explanatory enough. Leaving one job meant finding another, no matter what the circumstances. She'd just been so preoccupied with getting _out_ that she hadn't thought about how she'd get _in_ someplace else. Especially knowing what that meant in Stars Hollow.

Going home had been a natural choice, of course. After a life of freedom and instability, she couldn't deny the appeal of something that never changed. Something like Stars Hollow. The predictability of it. The safety.

The complete lack of job opportunities.

Which was why her job seeking efforts had done nothing but cost her money. She hadn't left the diner all morning and had invested so heavily in the coffee there that she might as well own stock, as though in one day she wanted to make up her four year absence.

She was making her way through her lunch when she realized that the paper's want ads only spanned two pages. Two pages and she had circled nothing.

Well, not quite nothing. She had underlined a possibility that looked for _Creative Educated Persons Wanted for Self-Made Company. _ But the pay was _variable_ and the last line of _We shoot for the stars!_ sounded too much like Kirk or Miss Patty and that simply made her nervous.

Of course, Doose's Market was looking for workers. There was a waitressing job available at a restaurant on the edge of town. A motel on the highway was looking for a nighttime receptionist and there were always shifts available down at the Casey's.

All _jobs_ in the most basic sense of the word. But they were jobs for high school students. Second jobs for people struggling to make ends meet. They weren't jobs for Yale graduates. Were they? Or was she being classically elitist in the worst sense of the word?

"You know, the whole idea of looking for a job means actually _going_ somewhere," her mother said, interrupting her thoughts.

"True," Rory said, not missing a beat. "Speaking of which, why aren't you at work?"

Lorelai shrugged, sitting down across from her. "It's my lunch break."

Rory glanced at the clock on the wall. "At eleven AM?"

"It's flexible," Lorelai countered. "Besides, at least I _have_ meaningful employment. Unlike some of us."

"Well finding _meaningful_ employment is easier said than done."

Lorelai rolled her eyes. "Perhaps _you_ are being too picky."

"I highly doubt it," Rory said. She scooted the paper over. "See for yourself."

Skimming the ads, her mother paused. "Hey, what about this one? Flexible hours, good pay--"

Peeking at the page, Rory said, "And it requires extensive cooking experience."

"You can cook."  "I'm not sure opening a bag of chips counts."

"Eh, maybe," Lorelai said. "Hey what about this one? Needs friendly people--"

"With bartending experience," Rory finished for her. "I'm half qualified."

"I'm sure you'd be great at tending bar."

"Except for my complete lack of familiarity with drink combinations."

"Perhaps." Lorelai continued to scan the page. "You could always apply at Doose's."

"And I could always pretend to relive the high school days that I never had," Rory said with a bit of a sigh. "I feel like I need to do something a bit more worthwhile to make all those years at Yale worth it."

"Picky, picky," her mother said, tossing the paper back at her. "You could always just sit on the street corner with a sign that says _Yale Graduate Will Debate For Money_ and see what happens."

"A new kind of pan-handler," Rory said. "I like it. Not the safest profession, though."

"Beggars can't be choosers. Wait! Ha! That one works."

Rory rolled her eyes. "I'm considering just admitting defeat and relying on unemployment benefits for the time being."

"You know," Lorelai said. "You could always just stick to what you know."

"And that is...?"

Her mother looked at her expectantly. "You know, writing. Journalism. That little thing you spent _all those years at Yale _studying for."

"And that would be lovely if this wasn't _Stars Hollow_."

"Well, someone has grown snobby in her time away," Lorelai said. "Do you not remember that we have a paper here?"

"The _Stars Hollow Gazette_?"

"Well, I don't think we have _two_. We may have finally wrangled in a McDonalds, but I think two papers would be pushing it."

This made Rory stop. She hadn't really considered it. After a job on the campaign trail, after being a staff writer for a paper on the nation's top ten list, she hadn't really considered writing for her hometown paper, which probably was lucky to have a circulation of a few thousand. It still reported social news, sighting and comings and goings, as if the small town was something of a soap opera that people needed to stay up-to-date with.

A step backwards in her career? Perhaps. But...it was _writing_. It was _journalism_. And it was close to home, it was convenient, and she was sure she had enough credentials to garner her a position.

Besides, it was temporary. A small reprieve to keep her occupied and thinking while she figured out where she was headed next in life. Getting a job didn't mean she would be there for the rest of her life. Quite the contrary--a stepping stone that would be mutually beneficial to all parties involved.

"I can see you're thinking about it," Lorelai observed. "You've got that sort of furrowed look on your face where you sort of scrunch your nose up when you're trying to make sense of things."

Rory scowled. "I don't scrunch my nose up."

"Au contraire," her mother said. "I think I would know far better than you. I have spent more time looking at you, unless you have some kind of hidden mirror system set up. Which, really, would be kind of freaky. And oddly egotistical."

Luke had sauntered up. "You talking about yourself again?" he asked.

"Ha!" Lorelai said. "Aren't you funny. I was merely commenting on Rory's thinky face."

"The scrunchy nose one?"

This was just unbelievable. Or rather, too believable. Why had she wanted to come back to this? "Are you through insulting me now?"

"Not quite," Lorelai said. "Just until Luke comes back with my sandwich."

"Chicken salad?"

"On a french roll."

"That's right, it's Wednesday."

"You're getting it," Lorelai said with a grin. "And a water will be good."

"Anything for you?" Luke asked, looking at Rory.

"Perhaps my dignity."

"I only have so much I can offer," Luke said. "How about a piece of pie?"

"Fine," Rory muttered.

As Luke walked away, Lorelai leaned forward. "Aw, you're sulking," she said. "There's no reason to sulk when Luke offers pie. You know how Luke is with his non-health foods. Though you really always have had an affinity for sulking. Sometimes, when you were little, I'd take your pacifier away and right away, all you'd do was thrust out that lower lip of yours and just go for it. No crying, just lots and lots of sulking."

"Why didn't you just give me back the pacifier?"

Lorelai frowned a little, considering that. "But then I never would have discovered how well you sulk."

"And I wonder why I'm so screwed up."

"At least I found you a job."

"Yeah, yeah," Rory said. "I don't think mentioning it means you actually _found_ it for me. I still have to go and apply and hope that they need writers."

"Honey," Lorelai said, quite seriously. "This is Stars Hollow. We may be able to put out a daily paper but that doesn't mean that there's a single _writer_ on the staff. I mean, have you _read_ it?"

Rory cocked her head. "I'm not really sure I have," she admitted. "There were always, you know, better things to read. Books, newspapers with standards."

"You may not want to tell them that when you interview."

Rory scoffed. "Who here has actually interviewed for an actual paper? Oh, yes, now I remember, that was _me_. So I'm fairly sure I _don't_ need your advice."

Her mother held up a hand in placation. "You managed to get two prestigious jobs and suddenly you think you know everything. Need I remind you that I myself have been gainfully employed for most of your life?"

"You _own_ the place," Rory pointed. "They can't fire you."

"Right," Lorelai said. "Which means I have reached the pinnacle of my working career, all before I'm past my prime, which really is quite impressive. I mean, how long until you think you'll be at the ownership level? Years, I think, no matter how good of a writer you are. _Years_."

The fact was, her mother was impossible. Purposefully. It was sometimes like having a conversation with a...well, with _what_, she wasn't sure, because in the end, there was _nothing_ like having a conversation with her mother. And to think people thought _she_ was bad. "I'm not having this conversation."

"That's because I win."

"I'm chewing too loud to hear you."

Lorelai's laugh was practically a cackle and Rory wondered what she'd look like with a wart on her nose.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Again, not much to say. Rory is beginning to settle in and she's pushing ahead in making sense of her life and of Dean. Continued thanks to those who read and review :)

CHAPTER THREE

Even with all those years at Yale, she figured she needed to do a little prep work. Not even the great Rory Gilmore could walk into a job interview cold and land it, even if it was only the Stars Hollow Gazette. Besides, the last thing she wanted was for the editor to think she felt like this was a shoe-in.

Just because part of her _did_ think it was a shoe-in didn't make much difference. Because that just gave her more reason to worry. This was an obvious gimme for Rory, so the idea of failure was all the more paralyzing. _Not_ getting this job would be irrevocably damaging to her already screwed up emotional state.

So, she needed to do her legwork. Brush her portfolio up. Make sure her references were in check. Plan her outfit. Figure out who the heck the editor of the paper was, anyway.

The ideal place to do this, she decided, was home. Home with her laptop and a mug of coffee and a CD playing in the background as she shuffled through her filed box of written work (which was, of course, sorted by date and labeled by title and publication, which was kind of silly as she only had so many publications to choose from, but it was rather professional-looking).

She had almost made it halfway home when she was blindsided by a blur of color and noise.

_Miss Patty_. Rory had been so absorbed in her thoughts, she'd forgotten to look where she was: right in front of the dance studio. And worse, Miss Patty had been standing right out front, as was her custom.

"Rory!" she exclaimed. "How are you?"

"Good," Rory said. "Sort of happy to be back home."

"You didn't enjoy Detroit? Such a large city, that one. Seems like it'd be rather dirty. Though you surely didn't stay in _that_ part of town, did you, dear?"

Rory wasn't entirely sure what qualified as the dirty part of town, but she figured a simple white lie might be the easiest route. She hadn't been back long enough to deal with Miss Patty in her prime. "No, no, of course not. Only clean parts of town for me."

"Good," Miss Patty said, leaning forward and patting Rory on the shoulder. "So, are you here to stay?"

There were probably easy answers she could give to that, but they'd only be easy for Miss Patty, not for Rory, because Rory couldn't decide in that very moment if it was a good lie to say that she was leaving as soon as possible or if the better lie was that she was staying as long as she could. And it didn't help because she wasn't sure which one would be the lie and which one would be the truth, and this was not the kind of anxiety she needed at this time of day. "Well, it's kind of hard to say," Rory said. "I'm leaving my options open a bit."

"That's always good, dear," Miss Patty crooned. "We all like to get away, to do great things. I know I did. Sometimes, I wish I'd never left it, that show business life. It was so exciting. People and places and parties and men." Patty's voice trailed off with a smile.

The nostalgia was practically palpable; Rory could feel it. And she understood it. It was the way she missed the hustle and bustle of Detroit, the crazy on the road feeling of the campaign trail. Yale. Chilton. Going after things, living dreams. "Then why did you?" she asked and she wasn't being polite, not this time. She wanted to know.

Miss Patty looked at her and raised her eyebrows. "It always gets tiring, dear," Miss Patty told her. "That kind of life--it's the stuff of dreams and you find when you lived it too long that you don't know how to appreciate it anymore. You sort of start waiting to wake up."

And wasn't that the most prolific thing Rory had heard all day? All week, perhaps. How on earth was she supposed to respond rationally to that kind of thing when it was everything she hadn't been able to verbalize even in her head, though she supposed she didn't really verbalize anything in her head, it was more like the formulation of a concrete thought, because it had been abstract and Miss Patty had just said _everything_.

"But, seriously, dear," Miss Patty said. "I never thought you were meant to stay here. You can tell about certain people and we've all known about you."

"Oh," Rory managed to say. "Thanks."

"Anytime," Miss Patty told her with another pat on the arm. "Anytime."

Rory sort of stared as she watched the woman glide down the street. Now she wasn't sure if she wanted to dream or sleep or wake up or just have more coffee.

She turned around and headed back to Luke's. Coffee it was.

-o-

Rory wasn't superstitious, not really, but neither was she totally impervious to it. She figured there were general signs, things that indicated just how something would go. It wasn't like she freaked out every time she saw a black cat or worried about a red sky at morning or anything utterly out there. But when her hair dryer fried and the hot water went on the blink and her best outfit was AWOL the day she was applying for a job, she kind of figured that maybe it was a foreboding sign.

Therefore, Rory was on edge. Not that she was known for her calm personality, but she had levels of it. Neurotic may have been normal, but jittering like a caffeine addict without her fix was not exactly her norm. Yet, unavoidable. Because today was the day of moving forward and she felt like everything around her was designed to keep her back.

Everything else aside, she wanted it. It was just the _Stars Hollow Gazette_--nothing special, and it would do _nothing_ for her career in the long run. But ever since her mother had suggested it, she had come to realize how _right_ it seemed. To come home, to write here, to show this town, to show herself, just what she could accomplish--not just far away, but at home, too.

She could do this. She was a Yale graduate. She could handle a job interview with a local newspaper. She could. Her mother's hairdryer worked just fine and who really wanted to take a long shower, anyway? And how would anyone else know what her _best_ outfit was. She would be fine. Just _fine_.

Which is why she spilled her coffee all over the floor at Luke's. And why the bagel she ate unsettled her stomach. Because she was _fine_. She still had her wits about her, she still had her experience, and she could do this. She _would _do this. As long as no one tried to talk to her between here and there, at least.

So, why, today of _all_ days, did Dean Forester come into the diner?

Of course, Rory had no idea how often he visited. It didn't really occur to her at first that she was the newbie here, that he was the more established regular. Even with his time at college, his summer and his breaks had been spent at home. It was entirely possible that he frequented Luke's in her absence. It wasn't like Rory had some kind of exclusive claim on it, even though sometimes it felt like it, But she hadn't even _lived_ there for years.

But still. Dean Forester. It was like when they first met. When her stomach got that nervous feeling, the butterflies fluttering against her insides, an anxious excitement. Because he was Dean Forester. Tall, dark, handsome, and _fine_. The dimpled smile and for a second all she could do was stare and remember the feeling of his lips against hers, his large hands gently caressing her face, running through her hair, the sound of his voice saying _I love you_...

Where was this coming from? She blushed viciously, looking down at her second cup of coffee and creasing the spine of her book and making a new effort to at least appear like she was reading. She needed to focus. To prepare.

Dean Forester was her ex-ex-boyfriend. Two times removed. She had no interest in him. None. He'd walked away from her that last time and not even friendship had been entertained. They were relative strangers on the street. He had no reason to even look at her. To even notice her. To even--

"Hi, Rory."

She looked up at him, her mouth gaping. "Oh. Uh. Hi," she said with a smile. "I didn't see you there."

"Oh. Well, I got the sense you were staring at me."

"Me?" she asked, feigning innocent. "I was merely spacing off. Staring off into nothingness. Pondering the world around me. I think you were probably just in the way of my aimless gaze. Which would mean I wasn't staring at you--you just happened to be standing where I was staring, which is, you know, entirely different."

He nodded, a cup of coffee in his hand. "Well. Okay," he said. "Nice seeing you."

And that would be it. He'd walk out and go about his business and life would be fine and she would not have to talk to him again until she went to pick up the truck.

But why did that matter? Why was she acting like a nervous school girl? This was _Dean_. Good, old, dependable Dean. The Dean she'd been with to the point of exhaustion. She had no reason to be nervous. Especially not now. Not after all her worldly experience. Not when there were more good memories than bad and he was just _Dean_.

"Hey," she said suddenly, almost surprised by her own voice.

He paused, maybe hesitated, and turned around. "Yeah?"

"Do you, you know, want to sit down? Maybe talk a little?"

He smiled a little. "I wouldn't want to disturb your pondering."

"You wouldn't be disturbing me," she said quickly. "Quite the contrary. You would greatly anchor me. I'm a bit nervous today, actually. I have a job interview."

"Really?" he asked. "Where?"

"The _Stars Hollow Gazett_e."

Dean's brow crinkled as he took a long sip of his drink. "The _Gazette_?"

"Yes, our town's finest journalistic establishment," Rory said as proudly as she could.

"It's the _only_ one," Dean said. He paused a minute, hesitating. "Don't you think it's a little...beneath you?"

"Beneath me?" Rory asked. "Ha! Just because I have written for a paper with a distribution greater than a thousand doesn't mean that this is _beneath _me. It's just...a different experience. And that really is the point of experience. To get different kinds. Because if all you have is the same experience, then you really don't have that much experience at all." It didn't matter that she'd had the same thoughts herself, because, well, it just didn't.

He frowned a little, considering that while he swallowed another gulp. "I just can't imagine that would make you happy," Dean said. "I mean, you always had, you know, plans."

"And plans change," Rory said with a shrug. "I've been there and done that and I'm just ready for this. It's a whole new level of challenge. Making a name for yourself in a town where everyone knows you is entirely different."

"You think you can change the minds of people here?"

She smiled broadly. "It's a worthy goal, I think."

With another drink, he just shook his head. "Seems like I've been trying to do that for years and haven't had any success," he said. His humor was dry, maybe sarcastic. Cynical perhaps? Not quite the Dean she remembered. "But if anyone can do it, you can."

That part was almost feigned in its politeness, but still somehow utterly sincere. Still, the hints of regret and bitterness in his voice...well, they weren't normal. Not natural. Part of her wanted to ask and to dig deeper, but she could see plainly that he had no interest in discussing it.

"I believe anyone can change," Rory said instead. "I mean, that's what people do, is change. That's what life is--one change after another. If we were all stagnant, then, well, would we even be living?"

He gave her a half smile. "I'm not sure you've changed that much."

It wasn't quite a compliment, but it didn't come across as an insult, either. "Quite the contrary," she said. If she couldn't read him, and if he wasn't going to play straight with her, then she'd just have to settle for being playful. He'd always enjoyed that kind of thing--in fact, he'd been one of the best at humoring her, which really was saying a lot. "There is much about me you have yet to learn."

"Well," he said, his smile wider now, more genuine, more _Dean_. "Good luck. Though I doubt you'll need it."

With that, he drained the last of his coffee and headed out the door.

-o-

She had rehearsed it in her head endlessly. She had planned her outfit, she had planned her schedule, she had planned the simple and professional smile she would have on her face as she held out her hand and said, "Good morning, Mr. Arlington. I'm Rory Gilmore."

His brow creased a little as he shook her hand tentatively. "I know," he said. "And call me Ned."

She smiled. "Ned," she said, wondering absently if it was short of Edward, which she had never understood since Edward started with an _E_ and Ned clearly started with an _N_, but that wasn't really relevant, and if the look on his face was any indication she needed to get to the point. "I've come to inquire about a job opportunity."

"I'm not really looking for writers," he began.

"I know you're not advertising," she said. "But I thought, maybe, if you took a look at my portfolio, you'd see that I could be a valuable asset to your paper, considering my wealth of experience."

He took the proffered portfolio almost fearfully, eyes perusing the resume on top. "You have...a lot of...experience," he said, a bit frazzled as he looked it over.

"Yes," Rory said readily. "The past four years have been quite busy for me. And that doesn't even include my work in high school and college. Both the journalism programs at Yale and Chilton are very prestigious. Some of the best undergraduate training in the country. Which, of course, does not compare to the real world experience."

The man scratched his head. "I mean, you're _really_ experienced," he said. "You wrote...editorials?"

Rory nodded. "Of course," she said. "And some small feature pieces and quite often wrote news briefs, both on the campaign trail and while employed for the Detroit Free Press. Samples of my work should be included in my portfolio."

"Yes," he said, shifting through the papers. "I, uh, can see that."

"I realize you're not exactly looking to hire anyone right now," Rory said. "But I also can assure you that I would be invaluable member of your staff. There's nothing I can't cover and nothing I would be too afraid to attempt. You name it--politics, news, sports--I can handle it."

"Well," he said, rubbing a hand over his lower face. "Well, Rory, you certainly would be good, I have no doubt in that."

Rory's eyes widened as he didn't continue. "But? Why do I sense a _but_?"

"But don't you think you're...over-qualified?"

"Over qualified?" Rory asked. "Over qualified? I would be honored to work for the Gazette. I've been out in the world, I've done all that. Now I'm ready for a break. Something closer to home. Simpler. There is nothing I want more in life than to write and to write to the audience that has always meant the most to me--my family and friends right here in Stars Hollow. Please, Mr. Arlington, I know this seems like a step back, but I really want to write for your paper. Really."

Maybe it was the pleading in her voice, maybe it was her sincerity. Or maybe it was just the pure desperation in her eyes. Or maybe it was just the fact that she was Rory Gilmore and she always got what she wanted. But the old man smiled shakily. "Well, if it means that much to you, of course," he said. "I mean, I'm not sure what our readers will know what to do with a writer like you, but I know they'll be very excited to see what you come up with."

"Thank you, Mr. Arlington," she said emphatically. "You will_ not _regret this. You just name my first assignment and I will be able to write anything as soon as you want."

"Well, we are kind of lacking in the social news department," he said with a nod. "Usually, Conrad Dewey covers that, but he's been sort of hit or miss since the race track opened up next town over. I'd offer you the front page for this coming Saturday but I think Nancy would right up and quit on me if I did. She's the only one who knows how to get more toner for the copy machine, so I can't risk that just yet. But give it time and we'll get you there."

"Social news," Rory said with a small nod. "Covering the social happenings."

"Yeah, you know, the ups and downs of life in town. It'd be a good way for you to catch up with what's going on."

She was pretty sure she didn't need a social beat to catch up with the Stars Hollow news. But that didn't mean that it didn't sound just about perfect, anyway. Because social news, opinion page, sports--whatever. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that Rory had a job and that she'd be able to show Stars Hollow just what she could do.

"Great," she said with a grin. "What's my first assignment?"

-o-

It was just like fate, all over again. That whole running into people thing, which was the universe's clear sign that they were _supposed_ to be talking more than they were. It'd happened before, with her and Dean. Funny, it had happened mostly during the times when they were apart, like fate was drawing them back together. It was such a Dean thing, always there, like the universe just had a plan for them, more than any of her other boyfriends.

Jess had been too purposefully divisive, too self-determined to be subjected to anything like fate. He'd staked Rory out, subverted situations to be with her, and their bond was forged by his refusal to be told what was off limits.

Logan was even different yet, almost entitled in his pursuit. He was the boy who had never been denied anything he wanted, and when he'd made his mind up about Rory, there had been no turning back, no matter what ultimatums or road blocks Rory may have thrown up from time to time.

But Dean..he was persistent like the rest, but the situations that brought them together. All the random moments--it wasn't Dean's choice and it wasn't hers, but it was something more than both of them, trying to put them back together, like the balance of the universe just sort of depended on it.

Quite simply, Dean was fate.

Which was why she wasn't even _surprised_ when he practically flattened her on her way home from the _Gazette's_ office.

Truly. Almost a pancake. And yet, no surprise at all.

He was a sizable guy and at the clip he was moving, he meant business. She was only glad that she wasn't a small child or Dean's guilt factor would have been astronomical.

It was pretty big as it was.

"Sorry!" he cried immediately, hands reaching out to catch her before she toppled to the ground. He held her tight and fast, but not hard, studying her carefully as she tried to keep her balance. "Are you okay?"

She had never been more pleased to be nearly knocked on her backside. "Yeah," she said finally, a little breathless. "I think so."

"I wasn't watching," he said, his hands still holding her steady. He looked earnestly at her. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Part of her wanted to say no and just melt right there and let him catch her, but she was no damsel in distress. And she was a crappy liar. "I'm fine," she assured him. "Just a little startled."

He winced a little, letting her go. "Sorry about that."

"You're in quite a hurry," she surmised. "You could almost be considered a force of nature at that speed."

"I'm due back at the store," he said. "I need to get back so my mom can get to an appointment."

Purposefully vague. He was trying to keep people out; either that, or he was avoiding sympathy. Or probably a little of both. Dean could express love and adoration, but he'd never been overly forthcoming when it came to things outside of a romantic relationship. "Oh," she said simply. Having just arrived in town, it probably wasn't her place to start asking probing questions. Dean didn't look up to it anyway. "Well, I'm sorry to have gotten in your way, then."

"No, no," he said quickly, running a hand through his hair. "I'm just...really busy. I get lost in it sometimes."

She nodded quite seriously. "That happens," she said. "Life just doesn't let up and next thing you know, you're plowing over people in the street. At least you have the decency to stop. Not everyone does."

He blushed a little, laughing slightly. "I'm just glad it was someone as understanding as you. Someone else might take it personally."

"Personally? Nah. It's not your fault you're tall and fast." And built like a horse--a lean horse, a race horse--

"Well," he said. "How'd the interview go?"

So, he'd remembered. Good for him. Still perfect boyfriend material. Not that she was keeping track. That would just be ridiculous. "Fantastic, actually," she said. "I got it."

His smile widened to reveal his dimples and his oh-so-white teeth. "That's great," he said. "I never had any doubt."

"Well, your vote of confidence makes all the difference," she said. She was about to continue that thought, to explore it more, to talk about it, but she didn't want to. She just didn't. She wanted something else. She wanted dinner. She couldn't just ignore fate, after all. "I thought maybe you'd want to go out sometime," she suggested.

He looked surprised, and not just by her sudden change of topic. But as though the very idea was a foreign concept to him. "Go out?" he asked. "Go out as in...?"

"As in, go out. Eat something. Spend time together. Talk."

"Like a date?" The skepticism in his voice was evident.

"Like two friends catching up," she clarified, hoping to soften the phrasing and ease whatever anxiety he seemed to be having at the prospect of a _date_.

His jawed clenched a little, and there was a brief look of indecision in his face. "Rory, I don't know."

"What's to know?" she asked, plowing forward. Dean may have plowed her over in the street with blind speed; she could do the same verbally. Always had. "You do need to eat, don't you? And I know you well enough to know that you rarely pass up a chance to consume food."

He shook his head a little. "Rory--"

"I won't take no for an answer," she said. "You were my good luck charm today, and I need to thank you for helping me land the job. So, you pick the place, and I'll meet you downtown at seven."

There was another brief pause, another moment in his eyes, and for a second she worried he would say no. That he would turn him down flat. That he wouldn't feel what she felt, that he wasn't going to give her that opening she was so sure she had.

But, then, his shoulders slumped a little. "Okay," he said. "Seven, downtown. I'll see you then."

She couldn't say why her victory here didn't seem like a victory after all.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: So sorry this is late! I wish I had a good excuse, but it sort of slipped my mind. If it makes people feel any better, I spent most of my time yesterday writing a different fic, which is why I was too preoccupied to remember to post this chapter. Also, I'm behind on review replies, but they will get out soon. No Dean in this chapter but Rory's life is certainly falling into place--or so she thinks :) Thanks!

CHAPTER FOUR

Her first assignment was to cover the hiring of a new principal at Stars Hollow High.

Sure, it wasn't a deeply controversial issue. There were no global ramifications to explore. There were no deep, hidden secrets to uncover.

So she wasn't sure why she was so _excited_.

It was like she was back at Chilton, back on her first assignments. Going for it like a real reporter. Because it wasn't the story that made the reporter. It was the _reporter_ that made the _story_. So this, this quiet little town with its simple little stories, was her chance to prove herself. To show herself worthy. To make a name for herself while communicating the real truths, the hard truths, the truths Stars Hollow so often ignored.

Rory Gilmore--carrier of truth, conveyor of knowledge, defender of the American way.

Yes, it was a bit melodramatic, but it looked good scrawled across the front page of her fresh reporter's notebook.

And who really cared if she was acting like she was still sixteen? It was her first day at her new job. And she was home, back where life was good and simple and she knew _exactly _what she was doing. This was all just a temporary thing, a short little fling, so she might as well milk it for all it was worth. Learn all she could. That was the attitude. She had a good thing going for herself.

"You know, if I give you any more coffee, you're officially going to turn into a coffee bean," Luke said, leaning over her table with his coffee pot.

She smiled broadly and pushed her cup toward him. "Hit me again."

He raised his eyebrows and poured. "You sure you're not just drinking coffee as a way of dealing with the fact that you're back here?"

"Coffee as an escape? That's a new one," she said, pulling her newly steaming cup back toward her. "Though, I do think it's cheaper than smoking. And healthier."

"No lung cancer, just an incurable case of jitters."

"In my case, who could tell the difference?"

"You should really try tea," Luke said. "Something herbal. Maybe green tea. It's like a miracle potion over in Asia."

"I will certainly keep that in mind if I'm ever in Asia."

Luke seemed to consider that. "You sure you're doing okay?"

"I have my coffee--"

"No, I mean, here."

"Well, I do prefer the window table, but--"

"I mean, here, in Stars Hollow," Luke said purposefully.

"This is my home--"

"No, it's your _home town_," Luke said. "I mean, isn't it awkward?"

Awkward? To be here? Awkward to admit that, after four years of a life and a job and excitement, all she had to show for it was a listing on her resume and a broken U-Haul?

She smiled. "I find most things in life awkward. I mean, it's awkward getting up in the morning to find my mother hovering in my bedroom. She says it's because her houseplants are in my old room, which is weird, too. I mean, houseplants, really?"

"Yeah, I thought it'd be a passing phase," Luke said. "But, then, she started not killing them--"

"I know. And now they've taken over. The house is a regular green house now."

"I'd call it more of a rainforest myself some times. Minus the bugs."

"Unless you're on the front porch at dusk. Then all bets are off."

"You sure you're okay?" Luke tried again. He was still looking at her intently, and _that _was awkward. Most people in town were so wrapped up with her previous accomplishments that they didn't stop to think _why_ she was here now. Why she was looking for employment at the Stars Hollow paper of all places. Those were questions not being asked, and Rory was more than happy not to answer them.

 But this was Luke. Luke of Luke's Diner. Luke of Lorelai and Luke. Her mother's Luke. Rory's Luke. And he knew her far too well.

"I have my reporter's notebook, I have an assignment, and I have a cup of coffee," she said. "Life couldn't be better."

Luke looked skeptical. But he shrugged in typical Luke fashion and continued on his rounds.

As he went, she bit her lip and looked down at her notebook.

_Rory Gilmore--carrier of truth, conveyor of knowledge, defender of the American way._

That had always been her dream. Her plan. Her great expectation.

Somehow, for the first time, she worried that it wasn't enough.

-o-

Walking into Stars Hollow High was more than a little weird. Surreal, even. She'd gone there for a few years, a few short years, but she'd left it behind for bigger and better things. Because Stars Hollow High was _fine_ and all, but it wasn't Chilton. It wasn't the college prep. It wasn't the way to get into Yale or Harvard as her hopes had been back then. And Rory had always been a girl who knew what she wanted.

That didn't mean she wasn't susceptible to a powerful dose of deja vu by walking in there.

Her first thought was how quaint it seemed. All the lockers, the linoleum-covered hallways. Very provincial, almost. So typically small town American.

Her second thought was how she couldn't believe she'd gone there. It seemed like so long ago, _ages_ ago. A decade.

And yet...

Still something of home. It wasn't her alma mater, but there was a connection. A memory. Of sitting with Lane in the cafeteria. Of arguing with Mr. Krumholtz in American History about the role of Native Americans in early American society. Of Dean Forester standing over her, smiling.

But Stars Hollow High was like a lot of things in Stars Hollow. It was something Rory _left_. Something that had never been enough for her, something she could remember fondly, but always as a stepping stone. Something that meant something, but only at a time and place that she would never have to go back to again.

So, going back--going back was about as comfortable as dating Dean had been after their affair. Familiar and easy and something she just didn't know how to let go of.

After all, she'd been so _young _here. So painfully young and naive and hopeful and terrified. And now, she wasn't. That wasn't who she was anymore, wasn't anything like she wanted to be. Being here solidified that more than ever.

Now, she was ready to go back and show this place who she was. How insignificant it'd been in the grander scheme of her life. Egotistical? Maybe. Survival tactics? Definitely.

Luckily, it was empty. The school, not her life. Well, mostly empty. As in no students. Which made sense as it was the beginning of summer. She'd never thought about that before--about what schools do during the summer when students checked out. As if _schools_ did something.

If that wasn't a personification nightmare, she wasn't sure what was. Even Mrs. Doyle, the freshmen Language Arts teacher, would be appalled.

Despite the empty halls, the office was not vacated. She pushed open the door and was greeted by a blast of stale air being blown full force at her. She had to close her eyes to it, shoving her wildly flying hair out of her face as she approached the front desk.

She didn't recognize the secretary, not that it would have mattered. The woman look tired and sweaty and she barely glanced at Rory in the wind tunnel that was her workspace. "Can I help you?"

"Uh, yes," Rory said. "I have an appointment with Ms. Carmody."

"With who?" the secretary asked.

"Ms. Carmody," Rory tried again, louder this time. She glanced to the side at the only occupied office. "The principal."

"The principal?"

"Yes!" Rory said, wondering who else she could be meeting in a deserted school in the middle of summer.

"Is she expecting you?"

It occurred to Rory in some part of her overly analytical brain just how ridiculous this all was. That she was a professional reporter, a trained, experienced reporter, and she was standing in her small town high school on assignment from a paper she'd never even bothered to _read_. What would her boss say? Her coworkers? What would Paris say? How had she come so far to end up like this?

It was wrong, wasn't it? Just plain wrong and weak and weird and all of that. She was above this. She had to be above this.

_Temporary_, she reminded herself. This was temporary. She wasn't _above_ this--she couldn't be _that_ much of a snob. No, this was like paying her dues, figuring out who she was and where she was going. In fact, it was all very noble and real, when she really thought about it. The perfect story wasn't what she was covering: it was who she could become _through_ covering it.

Her dreams had always been high and lofty and it felt good to know that had never changed.

"Yes," Rory said again, her confidence coming through clearly now. "Yes, I do."

-o-

It was a brilliant piece.

Which wasn't exactly modest, but it was exactly true. A brilliant expose, delving into the hows and whys of modern school administration. How Stars Hollow, a small, fledging district, had struggle to attract any candidates worth hiring. How they were taking a risk with someone as inexperienced as Lily Carmody.

Not to mention Lily's idealistic notions. Her desire to "connect" with students was positively noble, even if her approaches were unorthodox. Hopes of opening the campus, of instituting a more active Student Senate--great causes, but was Stars Hollow ready for such dramatic change?

All Rory could do was paint all sides of the issue, talk to Lily Carmody, the school board president, students, teachers, parents--

That was why it was a brilliant piece. There was heart and controversy and immediacy.

One day, three thousand words. Her perfect starting piece to show Stars Hollow just what she was made of.

Which was why she was in _such_ a good mood. She'd submitted her piece, via disk, as the editor-in-chief apparently still struggled with email attachments. But that didn't matter. Her piece was in. Ready.

Moreover, she had a date tonight.

Not a _date_ date, at least that wasn't what _Dean_ had agreed to. In fact, Rory had to admit, it was rather weird seeing him so unnerved by the idea. His hesitation, his reluctance--it was so very un-Dean-like. She supposed, after years of him trailing after her, she'd sort of gotten used to it. Not in that totally self-centered way, but just in that sort of blind assumption kind of way. Dean had always sort of been hers when she wanted him and it pained her to admit that at times she'd taken advantage of that.

Hence, her months of dragging him along while it was Jess she wanted. She hated to think about how nicely convenient Dean was then--as a means of getting at Jess. She hadn't been thinking of it like that at the time--she'd believed she loved Dean--but she could also see juvenile denial and childishness in retrospect. In fact, she'd seen in the second Dean had flipped out at her during the dance marathon.

Which didn't explain why seeing him with Lindsay had been so hard. Why seeing him get engaged, get married had been so hard. Why she'd wanted him _so badly_ afterwards.

She'd been lonely and young and he'd been so conveniently _Dean_.

But that was the past now. She'd moved on, broken up and broken out. She'd nearly been engaged and she'd been very decidedly single. And successful. She must not forget successful.

Bygones were bygones. Seeing Dean had been a pleasant surprise, and she was ready just to relish some of the perks of being home. And Dean Forester was a perk--no, not liked _that_, but in the way that she'd loved talking to him. She always had. And seeing him made her realize she could use a friend like that again.

Today was her day. Her first piece back home, settling in, all that. And tonight--tonight would be amazing.

-o-

It took her thirty minutes to decide what to wear.

Which was, of course, unbelievably ridiculous. Her interview outfit had only taken her fifteen minutes to pick out and plan, and surely a job interview warranted more angst than a not-really-date with her long-ex-on-again-off-again first boyfriend.

Logic, however, was not something that really applied to her under the best of circumstances. And it was clear that Rory and romance were not the best of circumstances.

She figured it was good she gave herself plenty of time. It wasn't like she had a ton of clothes--she wasn't that kind of girl--but finding the right outfit was tricky. Nothing totally casual--she couldn't show up in jeans and a t-shirt, not even a _nice _t-shirt. And she didn't want to go really formal or anything because this wasn't a date.

Nor did she want to be too playful. She only had a few outfits that even would fit into that category, but they were hardly the image she wanted to project to her long time Stars Hollow audience. Because coming home was one thing; coming back as the newfound town slut was not exactly what she wanted to accomplish, not even for Dean. All it would take would be one low-cut top or a too-short hemline for the rumors to start flying.

It was funny to her, in a very sort of reminiscing kind of way. Of all her boyfriends, of all the guys who had courted her, it was truly only Dean who made her act like a giddy school girl. True, Jess had made her hot and crazy--the way he'd argued with her, the way he'd talked deep literary analysis with her. Jess had been passion and danger and all the feelings that came with that. Jess had been a risk she needed to take, even if it had burned her in the end. Burned once, she'd needed. Burned twice, her fragile sense of romance refused to take, no matter how much he changed.

Logan had been another beast entirely. Still some elements of danger, as immature as the Life and Death Brigade had been, but Logan had just made so much sense. The bad boy she tamed, the rake she made monogamous. Things clicked with him. The family backgrounds meshed. He was cocky and aware and made sure no one forgot it. The brashness of his behavior was both a turn-on and a turn-off and ultimately had worked in her favor. But being with him had simply seemed right, and she had sort of never wante d it to change. Just not quite right enough, because she'd loved him but she hadn't been ready to give up the world for him.

She hadn't given up the world for any of them, really. Maybe she'd never been ready, maybe none of them had been worth it--she didn't know. She couldn't say. But of all of them, of Jess' depth or Logan's easy manners, neither of them had been quite like Dean. Neither of them had made her feel so unusually loved, made her feel so centrally important as he did. There were always butterflies when it came to Dean, because Dean was the boy of firsts. Respectful, yet completely single-minded in what he wanted. He was the one who had always forgiven her--the easiest one to love by far, which also made him the easiest one to leave behind, time and time again.

But that feeling. That feeling like something amazing could happen. That unsettled, hopeful fluttering in her stomach. Like going to Chilton, like getting into Yale, like accepting her first job. That feeling was _Dean_. And she was feeling it all over again.

Of course, it was only dinner. Only dinner, but her hands were trembling a little and her hair never seemed to sit just right. Little imperfections, little hiccups--like quitting her job, like her U-Haul breaking down--glitches in the grander scheme of things.

And the grander scheme? She wasn't sure what it was just yet. But she knew it was going to be good. It had to be good. The world was hers--from the campaign trail, to being a published journalist, to coming back home--the world was hers.

There was a sound from the kitchen and Rory sucked in a breath, pulling herself from her musings. She was still fluffing her hair when her mother appeared in the doorway.

"Wow, you look nice," Lorelai said.

Rory glanced at her. "Really? I wasn't sure if I should wear the skirt or the capris. I mean, a skirt is a little bit more fun, I think, but I don't want to come across as too school girlish."

"Right, since skirts are totally for school girls. Though I think if you avoid the knee-highs, you're probably all set. Though we can break out the Chilton uniform, if you really want to rock that vibe. The tie was stylish. Not to mention that sweater vest they charge fifty bucks for."

Rory glared at her. "You're not helping."

"I always help," her mother said defensively. "So, you want to share why you're preening over yourself like a sixteen year old going on her first date?"

At this, Rory could only grin. "Because I'm going out."

"I figured that all the pomp and circumstance wasn't for me."

"With Dean."

"Oh."

Rory looked at her mother. "Oh? Just oh? What does oh mean?"

Lorelai shrugged. "Just oh."

Shaking her head, Rory continued. "No just _oh_," she said. "There's more to it than that. That was one of those _oh_'s with a double meaning. Maybe a triple meaning."

"A double meaning _oh_?"

"Don't try to deny it," Rory said. "I know you too well."

"Well, then you tell me what the _oh_ means."

"I just know it means _something_. Like you want to tell me something or you think I should know something and I don't and you want me to guess it because of some weird mothering instinct that says I should be able to figure things out on my own. Right?"

Her mother looked confused. "Uh, well--"

"But I can tell you right now that your _oh_ is far too ambiguous. I mean, what? You don't like Dean? You've always liked Dean. Well, most of the time. Except for when he broke up with me, and you thought it was his fault, which it wasn't. And then when, well, _you know_, but you_ like_ Dean. So, why the _oh_?"

Staring at her, Lorelai said, "You really need to learn to breathe when you talk. I think you're at a high risk for passing out."

Rory scowled. "You will not get out of your _oh_ that easily."

Her mother rolled her eyes. "It's just--Dean. I mean, Dean? After everything, after all the breakups, all the time together and the time apart, Dean again?"

"What's wrong with Dean again?" Rory asked, now defensive.

Leaned against the door frame, her mother shrugged. "I just wonder if you both have been through enough together."

Rory gave her hair another fluff. "That's exactly why this is a good idea," she said. "It's not like there's tons of strings attached. We haven't seen each other in awhile. Feelings fade and we just wanted to catch up."

"Okay then," Lorelai said. "Since you have it all figured out."

"Seriously, I think you're over-analyzing this."

"You're the one doing the talking," Lorelai said. "I'm just standing there."

"With your _oh_'s!" Rory exclaimed in exasperation.

"Yes, with my dreaded _oh_'s," her mother conceded. "You should wear your hair up. I think he's always liked it that way. And it looks more fresh on a summer night. Less chance of frizz."

"You think?" Rory asked, turning back to the mirror, looking skeptical.

But her mother had already disappeared down the hall.

"Coward!" she yelled.

Then she scowled at the mirror before picking up her brush and pulling her hair back into a ponytail.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: And now it's time for Rory's big night out. What are the chances that it goes just like she wants? I'm very grateful for the reviews--and that I haven't bored people completely yet. Granted, it's only chapter five, so I have plenty of more chances to lose you all :) I am especially thrilled by those of you who are taking the time to review every chapter--it's totally make the fact that I spent over a year on this fic worthwhile. All other notes in part one!

CHAPTER FIVE

He was right where she thought he'd be. Sitting in the town square, in one of those little benches they installed, the kind that she and Dean had spent so many nights on, sharing ice cream, sharing kisses, sharing lives.

It was different now, though. He _looked_ different. Older. Maybe sadder. Maybe wiser. Just...different. Like something had changed in him that she couldn't quite figure out, not yet. But something she definitely wanted to learn. Dean had never been a man of mystery, and, Rory had to admit, it was strangely alluring to think of something about him that wasn't plainly obvious.

Yet, still, somehow, this whole scene, this whole _feeling_--it was the same. The same people milling around. The same smell of fresh clean air that she'd missed so much while away. The same street lights glowing, the same shops and restaurants, the same stars twinkling overhead.

Rory didn't totally believe in fate, but she had to believe that there something _special_ about tonight. Just like there was something special about today, about being back, about all of it. Like there was a reason she turned Logan down all those years ago, a reason she quit her job in such a tizzy, a reason she'd driven a U-Haul all the way across the country to get back to her roots.

It was her second coming out. The reinvention of herself. All of it was leading to this and she was just _excited_. All the same things--new again. How it all worked together, she couldn't be sure yet, but she was sure that it was going to be fantastic.

She was nearly in front of Dean before he saw her--it seemed his eyes had been everywhere be on her. So much so that he jumped a little when she said, "Hey there."

He blinked, startled, and straightened, pushing himself to his feet almost out of instinct. "Hey," he said, and she could feel his eyes roving up and down her body, almost in surprise. "You look good."

She smiled. There was a time when it would have made her blush, but she couldn't help but think that maybe, this time, he was right. "Thanks," she replied, letting her eyes sweep over him. "You look good, too."

She was right, too. Tall and lean and, though he'd always been prone to slightly trendy attire, there was something just offbeat enough about the collared polo to really do him every kind of of favor. The wash on the jeans was perfect for him, and the cut did everything to accentuate just how long his legs were. And that only began to hint at the bulk that lurked beneath his polo. It was almost preppy, but not quite. Moderately fashionable, but understated. Not like Logan. Not like Jess. Not even like the Dean of her youth.

But good, nonetheless.

"So," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "How'd your first day go?"

Her eyes brightened. He remembered. Of course he remembered. He always did. "Good," she said. "I think my first article will be a total success. Unlike anything the town has ever seen before."

He laughed a little. "Somehow, I don't doubt that," he said. "I just hope the town is ready for the news by Lorelai Gilmore."

Rory tossed her head proudly. "Ready or not, here I come," she said. "I think this place is ready for a change."

Dean just raised his eyebrows. "You _have_ been gone a long time."

"So have you, from what I've heard," she said.

His shrug was noncommittal. "Just college," he said. "I was home in the summer."

"Just college," she said. "Just college? College is an _amazing _step for you."

He looked at her, a little confused, a little uncertain--and hurt. "Yeah, well, I guess I'm just full of surprises."

"I just meant that it's amazing you finally went," she said, hoping to reassure him. "That's very noble. Respectable. I told you back then that most people who delay going just never go. So, it really says something about you that you made it after all."

She was trying hard to be uplifting, to be complimentary, but even she was aware of the inescapable condescension in her voice.

"You know, just ignore me," she said finally. "As you can see, I still haven't become more articulate in my years away."

At that, he did smile. "And you call yourself a journalist."

"Well, that is the beauty of the written word," she said. "There's always the power to change it. I seem to have this small issue with speaking, though. As in, there is no filter between my brain and my mouth."

He nodded with mock seriousness. "I seem to remember that."

Her grin widened. "So where would you like to go to dinner? The sky's the limit."

"Oh, such options," Dean said. "Luke's is always a good choice."

 "I was thinking someplace I _didn't_ visit on a daily basis. You know, just for variety's sake."

"Fair enough," he said. "Have you been to Sweet Aroma's yet? Only a few years old and they overcook their meat, but their pasta's pretty good. It's where Jojo's used to be before it went belly up."

First of all, Jojo's was gone? She'd been gone too long. She knew life had to go on without her--she was that self centered to actually believe the world revolved around her. And still, the idea of it--the idea of Stars Hollow without her--was just...weird. Surreal. This was her town. These were her streets. This was her Dean. All of it, her domain, and yet she was half fumbling around like a tourist trying to find the road out of town.

Second of all, Dean knew all about it. Dean knew _everything_. Dean was Dean was Dean was Dean and why did she feel so utterly out of the loop when this was _Dean_? She hadn't flailed around Dean since they'd first started dating, when she'd been a star struck school girl amazed a boy would notice her at all.

Fumbling and flailing--at least her failure was full of alliteration.

But seriously. She needed to stay together. Stay composed. Tonight was going to go well. She was resolved on that much, even if Jojo's was gone and Dean was giving her butterflies in the stomach.

For once in her life, the words stayed in her head, and she offered him a smile instead. "Great."

He gave her an appraising look, questioning just for a moment, before he took her at her word and smiled back.

As they fell into step with one another, Rory felt the flush of heat on her cheek as she remember what this felt like, what _Dean _felt like, what _Rory and Dean _felt like, and wondered why of all the places, he wanted something _new_ when she was more than content to stick with what worked.

-o-

It was like heaven, like walking on cloud nine, like having her cake and eating it, too, like any and every cliche of perfection and happiness she could think of.

Dinner was delicious, much better than she remembered for a Stars Hollow delicacy. The atmosphere was serene, like the stuff of movies. And Dean's company was--Dean's company was so much more than she'd remembered. Dean had always been _fun_ and he'd always tried so hard to converse on the topics that mattered to her--but now, there was a innate way about him. Like he knew exactly what he was talking about. Like he could match her, not just wit for wit, but tidbit of knowledge for tidbit of knowledge, philosophy for philosophy. He'd grown up quite nicely and she hadn't realized it until then. And she liked it. She liked it a lot.

It wasn't just Dean that she liked, either. It was catching up. It was feeling at home again. After four years away, of trying to find her place in the world, it felt good to come back to something so snug and easy to fit into. Like a breath of fresh air.

She was fond of her cliches tonight.

But it was such a stereotypical night on every level. Part of that was pure happenstance, she was sure--the weather, the cordial atmosphere around town--but part of it was just Dean. The way he'd always been so much the gentleman. From the first time he'd talked to her, to the way he'd first kissed her, to the way he'd always opened the door for her and put a gentle (yet massive) arm around her shoulder.

Logan had been keen on that kind of thing, too, but she had to admit, it seemed kind of rote from him. Part of his training. With Dean--well, with Dean it felt like something special because most random guys who liked cars weren't innate gentlemen. And she'd met his father. It wasn't exactly an inherited trait.

It was hard to believed there'd been a time in her life when this had been the norm. Friday night movies, dinners out on Saturdays, Dean, with his floppy hair, wearing one of the two nice shirts he owned.

To his defense, he had clearly diversified his wardrobe in the years since then, and it made her feel all the more excited to be there.

Besides, he could still make her laugh. A lot. Which she did. A lot. Perhaps a bit more "giddy school girl" than she normally liked to project, but the magic of the night was upon her, and for the first time since _being_ home, it felt like she'd never left.

She'd ordered pasta and he'd ordered a burger and he was watching her with rapt attention.

"It was good, though," she tried to explain. "Living on my own was sort of liberating. I mean, I'd been away from home before and all, but having my own place, my own space. I liked living with Paris throughout college, but you know, it _was_ Paris. I never really knew I had a decorating style until I had the chance to buy my own stuff." She did not feel compelled to mention Logan. Not now. Maybe not ever.

He was nodding. "I think you'd have a very eclectic style. Based on books as decoration."

She raised an eyebrow. "Books as decoration?" 

"Sure," he said. "I'm seeing large mahogany book cases, filled with tattered paperbacks and a coffee table strewn with stacks."

The way he said it almost made her want to salivate. "I wish!" she said. "Mahogany book cases would be lovely, however, expensive. Journalists don't get paid that well."

He looked skeptical. "Not even ones at the Detroit Free Press?"

The way he said it made her blush. "I was only a staff reporter."

"Still," he said. "You needed mahogany book cases. Where else would you put your collection?"

"Wal-Mart has a lovely selection."

"Of particle board!" he exclaimed. "Don't tell me you had particle board for your books!"

She shrugged meagerly. "As you said, I do have many."

"That's a crime," he said with a shake of his head. "You deserve built ins--wood stain of your choice, but a wall full of book. Floor to ceiling. Better yet, a library. Complete with a run-down chair that you can curl up in and have it seated right by the window."

It was like he _knew_ her. Which, of course he did. They had dated, after all, and it wasn't a mystery that he'd been sort of completely in love with her. Still, it made her warm inside to think about, to hear him speak, to know how well he _still_ knew her. "Only in my dream house," she said. "Not my cramped loft. Literally, only two rooms, and that's a stretch, since the bathroom door hardly ever latched."

Dean laughed. "How you suffered for your art," he said.

"Well, that _is _the sign of a true enthusiast," she said. "Which, I'm sure you know. Why else would you willingly get under a car for hours on end?"

"The fantastic view, of course," Dean said, not missing a beat. "That and the grease everywhere. Makes quite a fashion statement. And saves on moisturizer for my hair but ups the need for shampoo so that's kind of a wash. Literally."

"All those years at college, and that is what you pick up on?" Rory asked. "I should have gone into engineering. Sounds far less complicated than journalism and literature any day of the week."

With a scoff, Dean shifted in his seat, amused. "You think that's _all_ there is to engineering?"

"Playing with cars, learning how to make grease look attractive."

Dean smirked. "Never mind the advanced levels of math and physics required," he said. "You can imagine that was a long four years. I never was very good at math, but there I was taking advanced Calculus. I had to study my butt off that semester to make it through."

Rory had to admit, she was impressed. She had told Dean often that he could achieve more, and she had always encouraged him to reach for something higher, but in a way she guessed she'd never really expected an engineering degree at UConn. This was, after all, the same kid who had sat uncomfortably at her grandfather's dinner table saying that he didn't know what he wanted to do. And tinkering with cars, no matter how good he had been, was a far cry from completing a full-on engineering degree.

"What?" Dean asked, a little uncomfortable, and it finally dawned on Rory that she'd been staring in a not-so-subtle manner.

"Nothing," she said quickly, looking down and picking up her water. "I'm just impressed, that's all."

"Yeah, who'd a thought, right? Dean Forester actually _did_ something with his life."

Rory could not help but wince. "Dean, I didn't mean--"

He shrugged. "It's okay," he said. "That's what everyone thinks. That's the thing with doing something unexpected. Everyone acts all surprised that you could do it in the first place, which just makes you wonder how much they believed in you to begin with."

There was an undeniable undercurrent of melancholy in his voice, and his eyes were cast downward, almost wistfully. She couldn't help but feel guilt. "Well, either way," she said, forcing a smile to her face. "I'm glad you went for it. Just for yourself. That's the way it should be. More people would be happy if we all just did what we _really_ wanted."

Dean looked up at her. "You've never had a problem with that," he said.

It wasn't quite supportive, but it wasn't quite mean, so Rory pressed her lips together in a smile. "So, how did you end up back here?" she asked.

He ducked his head a little. "I'm sure you've heard the story. You have been back a full two days."

"Well I heard the basics," she said. "About your dad. I'm sorry. How is he?"

Dean shrugged a little, still not looking up at her. "He's hanging in there," Dean said. "They haven't released him from the cardiac unit just yet--they think he may need another surgery to get back up to par, but he's doing better than he was." Dean smiled wryly. "He's with it enough to grill me about the store. So, I have to make sure it's in tip top condition."

"You're working at the store and the mechanic shop?"

His smile turned shy at that. "That's mostly for me," he said, looking up at her through the veil of his bangs. "I miss working on cars, you know? After four years of immersing myself in it, it just didn't seem right not to. Plus, money is tight at home. I needed a little more to help cover the basic expenses."

There was such duty, such responsibility in that, that Rory felt weighed down just by listening. "That must be so hard," she said. "How long do you think you'll have to stay?"

"Hard to say," he said. "At least until my dad's able to run the store full-time. Even then, maybe a bit longer. My mom's had to take some time off work to help take care of my dad. And the medical bills...well, insurance hasn't been as great as we'd hoped. We'll just see."

"But what about what you want? I mean, aren't there other places you want to apply?" It was an innocent question, a very _Rory_ question, but the minute she asked it, she saw the tension tighten in Dean's expression.

The fear for his family, the joy of working with cars--all vanished. "No point in thinking about that now," he said.

She wanted to push for more, to ask more questions, but she recognized that look. That hurt look, that regretful look, the one a heartbeat away from shutting down. He'd given it to her before, almost always when it came to facing his own plans for the future. The way he looked when he first asked about if they'd make it in college. The way he looked when her grandfather told him that he wasn't good enough. The way he'd look when Rory had disapproved of his marriage. The way he looked when Rory let him walk away that last night.

And it occurred to her that maybe Dean Forester wasn't as totally impenetrable as she thought. That he was riddled with just as many doubts, if not more, than everyone else.

So she smiled. "So how's Clara?"

If her blatant attempt to lighten the mood with a friendlier subject was obvious, he didn't let on. She could only be grateful that, in addition to being sweet and attractive and funny, he was also practically obscenely polite most of the time.

Sitting there, watching him eat, seeing the dimples coming and going on his cheeks with the soft haze of perfection about her, she couldn't help but think that she was sixteen again, that this was their first date, that she was unbelievably, nearly _unnaturally_ lucky.

-o-

He walked her home.

She'd expected it, of course, but had been surprised that she nearly had to cajole him into doing it.

It seemed that while he was the same friendly, polite, well-mannered and good-humored Dean, he was also, now, a little shy. Odd, yes, but workable, she figured. Maybe she was underestimating the effect that the years had had on him. Because it had been, well, _years_.

Still, surely he could feel it. How right it seemed. How it was like they'd never even been apart, like there'd been no Jess, no Lindsay, no Logan, no _anybody_.

He didn't hold her hand, but they walked side by side, Rory trying desperately to keep her hand movements to a minimum. She didn't need to spoil the evening with her own insanity, though she doubted that Dean would mind. Dean never had, but she couldn't take that risk. And just because she _felt_ sixteen, didn't mean she should act that way. She at least had to make attempt to match Dean's level of maturity.

He asked her about the paper, about her little apartment back in Detroit. He asked about how it felt to be successful, what she wanted to do next. He let her talk, like he always had, listening while she rambled about freedom and challenges and this vague sense of greatness she still couldn't quite place.

In fact, she talked so much that she was almost surprised when they arrived at her house. Almost surprised. Definitely disappointed.

He lingered at the sidewalk, clearly hesitant to go farther. So she lingered, too, turning toward him with a smile. "So," she said. "That was fun. A good time. Catching up. Getting to know you again."

His look was hesitant, but he smiled. "Yeah," he agreed. "I'm glad things are going so well for you."

"And you," she replied quickly. "I mean, it's so crazy all the time that's past and we both end up back here. Just like before. It's almost like we're both the new kids again and there's all this new stuff to figure out."

"Rory, you're hardly the new kid," he said. "I don't think the town ever got over you leaving."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, Stars Hollow does seem to be sorely lacking in the news department. And it doesn't seem like the Gilmores are for doing things under the radar. Perfect combination for drama, if you think about it, and yet everyone seems to win."

His laugh was light. "Well, some things will never change. Stars Hollow and Gilmores included."

She watched him speak, the way his jaw moved, the way his hair settled on his head. "And some things do," she said, a little awed in spite of her supreme effort to be utterly mature and perhaps demure if she could pull if off. She couldn't. "Like you. I still can't believe it."

"Really, Rory, people grow up and go to college all the time."

"I know," she said quickly, her aspirations for demure seeming comical now. "I do. I just remember how excited I was to hear about it. And it's just so great to be able to sit here with you now and listen to you talk about it. Or stand here. I just always imagined this for you and there you are. More than I could have thought."

"Yeah, well, I guess I'm just full of surprises," he told her softly.

There was a pause, a pregnant one, laden with desire and unspoken words. There it was _again_, screaming out at her--that chemistry, that unstoppable feeling of how _right_ it was, how much she wanted, how much was there for the taking.

He was looking at her, looking down into her face, his eyes roaming hers, her nose, her mouth.

Her palms started sweating. How long had it been? When had she been on her last date? When was the last time a guy made her heart _race_ like that?

But it never came. His lips never descended, his fingers never went through her hair. Instead, he smiled again, that sad smile from before. "I should go," he said. "Have a good night."

"Yeah," she replied, breathily. "Have a good night."

She didn't move, hardly breathe, as he turned away from her and headed down the street.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Poor Rory. We'll see how she handles her quasi-rejection here. Thanks for continuing to review! And also, next update may be a bit on the late side--I'll be out of town on Thursday but should be able to update this weekend.

A/N 2: I promised sendintheclowns I'd put out a feeler in regards to a cute!Dean fic exchange. She's the mastermind behind the Summer of Sam Love (which you can check out from her bio) and she seems to be itching for more cute!Dean fic. So basically we're curious if we'd have anyone out there who would be interested in writing fic about our favorite Gilmore boy. Anyway, if you could drop me or her a line about that, we'd appreciate it :) Thanks!

CHAPTER SIX

She went inside with a frump.

Granted, she wasn't sure what a frump was or whether she had actually just invented the word, but she went in with a frump nonetheless. A surge of frustration, muddled by aborted desire, all coming to a head in her frumpiness--heavy footsteps, downturned face, and the general feeling that life just kind of _sucked_ at the moment.

"Good date?"

Rory startled, turning toward Lorelai who was seated in the dimly-lit living room. "I thought we were possibly beyond this point of you waiting up for me after my dates."

"It's only 9:30," Lorelai said.

She put her keys down on the table. "And so you're sitting there in the dim light...?"

"Cross-stitching," her mother said, holding up a small ring and a needle. "Or trying to. I don't seem to have an affinity to it. I thought I would, given my ease with sewing. But this--ugh, requires too much concentration. You know, putting each stitch in just the right spot, and all I'm thinking about is why it isn't called X stitch because really, they look so much more like an X than a cross."

"Wow," Rory said, moving in and sitting on the chair. "I go away for a few years and you settle into the domesticity that you never had before."

"Well, I need something to do to fill my evenings," her mother said with a shrug. "Besides, I sort of thought it might come in handy."

"For all those times when you think to yourself, 'Gee, I wish I could cross stitch.'"

"A very disconcerting experience," Lorelai agreed. "So how was the date?"

"It wasn't a date."

"According to you or according to him?"

"Does it matter?"

"Well, I think that influences how you feel about it," Lorelai said. "Like, if it wasn't a date according to _you_ then I think you probably wouldn't have worn those shoes?"

"I have date shoes?" Rory asked, looking down at her feet, taking in again the strappy little white sandals. They'd always been tight and a little hard to walk on with the dinky little heel, but they were so _cute_ and even an Ivy League grad could appreciate cute shoes. And she didn't even need to be blonde to know that.

"Well, who would wear such uncomfortable shoes if it wasn't a date? You make sacrifices for dates. You wear the Birkenstocks for a casual catch up with a friend."

Rory contemplated that. "Maybe I just wanted to look nice," she said.

"Because you felt it was a date," her mother concluded, plucking her needle through the fabric.

"You know, this housewife thing you're up to is kind of freaking me out."

"Ah, but you have to be married and stay at home all day to be a housewife."

"So, you're just some mutant working single woman version," Rory said. "Does Grandma know about all this?"

"She'd be appalled that I was entertaining such trivialities," Lorelai said. Then she smiled broadly up at Rory. "Which is why I'm sure to talk about it every chance I get. She offered to get me a maid to do these things for me, but I refused. I mean, what is the point of a hobby that annoys your parents if you're just going to have someone else do it for you? Besides, I'm working up the calluses on my fingers. The needle barely feels like anything anymore, which is really kind of weird. But you're still avoiding the question."

Rory sighed, flopping back further in the chair. "Maybe because I'm not sure of the answer."

Her mother clearly looked interested, straightening in her seat, but she was showing some restraint. Or trying to her. Lorelai, despite her new habits, still had the maturity of a sixteen-year-old, so it wasn't really a surprise. "And why's that?"

"Because it was _like_ a date in every possible way. He looked nice, I looked nice. We ate dinner, we laughed, we talked. We did all the normal date stuff. I'm sure if you ask around town tomorrow, you'll hear that we were out and about, just like old times."

There was a pause before Lorelai prompted her. "But?"

"But then he just _didn't_," Rory said, her exasperation finally coming clean.

"He didn't?"

"He just didn't. No kiss, no fond farewell, nothing. I've said goodbyes to people I dislike with more emotion than that."

"You know you haven't dated him for a long time," Lorelai said gently.

"I know," Rory conceded. "And it's not like I expected it to be just as it was. But everything _was_. It was so much like it used to be and it was just like I could _feel_ it. And I thought he felt it, too, but then..."

Her mother winced a little. "Nothing."

"Nothing at all."

"Left you hanging?"

"Yes!" Rory cried. "I mean, this is the guy who chased after me for _months_."

"It has been _years_, honey," Lorelai said.

"I know, but this is _Dean_." Dean, who had always wanted her. Dean, who had always loved her. Dean, who she could always count on. _Dean_. Her Dean.

"Did you really think he'd just be sitting around hoping you'd come back?"

The questions wasn't mean, but it was a little pointed, and Rory felt the barb just the same. "Not like that, exactly," she said. I just--it felt so _right_."

"Have you forgotten what happened the last time it felt _right_ with Dean?"

At that, Rory reddened. It was a little hard to forget--for many reason. Because it was her first time, because of the way Dean felt as he ran his hands over her skin. Because of the way it felt to be lying in his arms, like all the world was theirs. Because of the _Candy Man_. Because of the realization he was going home to _Lindsay_. "That was _totally _different," she said. "I mean, we were so much younger then, and, really, we weren't so bright. And besides, he was married then. He's not married, Mom. Not anymore."

"I'm just saying," Lorelai said. "Maybe it's a wise lesson to learn for both of you that sometimes what _feels_ right isn't always the best thing to do. You know how you felt after that. I promise you, it was ten times worse for Dean."

That made sense, it really did, but Rory hadn't totally thought of it like that--from Dean's point of view. She could remember more now--the guilt on his face, the self-loathing in his voice.

That, and the look on his face in the restaurant. The look that was too scared to talk about something.

"Dean's been okay, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, he's been happy and everything. After..."

Putting down her cross stitch, Lorelai just looked at her. Plain and simple, her face soft with sympathy. "Rory."

"Yeah?" Rory asked, pretty sure she wasn't going to like the answer.

"There are some things that just aren't for other people to talk about," she said. "You want to know what happened with Dean? You need to talk to Dean."

"But he won't _tell_ me."

A bittersweet smile laced her mother's face. "Then maybe you don't get to know."

-o-

She really should have seen it coming.

Despite all the good vibes from yesterday, despite all the positive things that had happened, Rory really should have seen it coming. After all, having her date fizzle out at the very end should have been a dead giveaway that something was amiss in her little world of perfection.

But her little fantasy had been so _perfect_. Yes, Dean had been a little cool to her and, yes, her mother was becoming perplexingly and concisely philosophical at times, but the image she had in her head of what life should be like was just so nice and simple and pretty. And it was so close to being true. The date with Dean hadn't even been _in_ the picture, so really, that wouldn't have had much bearing.

Still, she should have seen it as a sign of things to come. A hint that maybe things weren't going to swing her way, just because. A tip-off that she might have to work harder than she wanted in order to to achieve the happiness she was after.

It all became clear when she bought a copy of the paper.

She picked it up at Doose's, along with a box of Pop Tarts and a bottle of iced cappuccino. A little decadent perhaps, especially for breakfast, but considering she'd been living on greasy hash brown and eggs the last few days, she figured the sugar might be a nice change of pace.

But, as she was standing in line, flipping through her paper, she became aware that her article wasn't there. She had known it wouldn't be on the front page. And she wasn't surprised that it wasn't on the second page, but then came the third, and the fourth, and she realized it wasn't _anywhere_.

Her article wasn't in print!

Her heart began racing and her face flushed. She had gotten it in on time. She'd done an exceptional job. And now her big debut hadn't even occurred.

"That's four bucks and three cents," the kid behind the register said, sounding rather bored.

Rory stared at him.

He stared back, a little taken aback. "Look, lady, I don't make the prices."

"What?"

"You don't need to glare at me, okay?" the kid said.

"I'm not glaring at you," Rory tried to explain. Indeed, though, she _was _glaring, but not at this kid, because she didn't know this kid, she didn't care about this kid, she just wanted her Pop Tarts, her iced cappuccino, and her _article_.

"Do you have your money?"

"Oh," Rory said, red rising in her cheeks. She dug a five out of her purse. "Here you go."

The kid watched her skeptically as he took the bill and counted out her change.

"I really wasn't glaring at you," she said, feeling more than a little ridiculous.

"Uh-huh," the kid said. He didn't believe her.

With a sigh, she collected her change and her stuff and headed out the door. Not only was Dean acting totally weird, but her article wasn't published, and now she was going to be known as the weird glaring lady down at Doose's. All in all, not a good start to her day.

She could fix it, though. Make sure she smiled a lot next time she was in Doose's. Talk to Dean. And first things first, go down to the Gazette and try to figure out why her new employer apparently did not have a brain. Fate was absolutely idiotic anyway. If it wouldn't work for her, she'd _make_ it work for her. She didn't get into Yale by fate. She didn't get a job at the Detroit Free Press by fate. And, damn it, coming home wasn't fate either.

Or if it was, then fate didn't know her well enough to know not to mess with Rory Gilmore.

-o-

She found Ned hard at work in the office. Well, working hard on his doughnut, anyway, which looked to be cherry filled. Rory couldn't blame him on that front, especially since it still looked rather fresh.

Nonetheless, she had an issue to attend to, cherry doughnut or not. It could have been an apple fritter and Rory still had to pick at this bone because, well, it was her _career_.

The minute he saw her, he tensed up, putting down his doughnut and everything. "Rory," he said, wiping his hands absently on his pants. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm okay," she said. "The east coast air is a little fresher than Detroit at this time of year, so I really can't complain. And being closer to the sea seems to help the amount of frizz in my hair and why didn't you run my article?"

He flinched. "Your article?"

"Yes, the thing you assigned that I wrote," she said. "The article."

He seemed to be hedging. "It's just, well, I mean it's very _good_ and all--"

Rory cocked her head. "Yes, so, what's the problem? Why didn't you run it?"

"Well," he hedged. "It's a bit...edgy."

Rory just stared. "Edgy?"

"You know, pushing the envelope."

"Well, yes," Rory said as a matter of fact. "That's the point of journalism. To show people the real story. The truth."

"But...this is Stars Hollow," he said, his face contorted in a grimace.

"People in Stars Hollow need truth!" Her incredulity was flaring. Her years of training, her years of work, were all building up to a self-righteous anger. Indignation. She needed to stand up for her profession, for her training, for the _truth_. That was her duty.

The man chewed his lip, eyeing her carefully. "People in Stars Hollow just need the basics. Nothing fancy."

"But my piece _wasn't_ fancy," Rory protested. "It was a simple presentation of the facts. Who, what, when, where, and why. I got all sides of the issue. It was in a classic modified inverted pyramid, ideal for main page coverage."

"Rory, let me be honest with you," he said finally. "You're a smart writer. A good writer. But you keep forgetting that this is _Stars Hollow_. People don't want to know about the future of the school district. They just want to know where her home town is and if she likes to knit."

Rory blinked. Once. Twice.

He had to be kidding.

He surely was kidding.

He wanted a social blurb? Over an informative and provoking article?

"You're kidding," she said finally. Being prolific in writing didn't translate to being articulate in speech.

He wasn't kidding. "Rory, I want you to work on my paper. I really do. But you need to tone it down a notch. You know, understand your audience. It'll serve you in the long run."

Now she was getting journalism advice? From a guy whose only journalistic experience came from running a small town newspaper?

The feeling building in her, the hurt, the embarrassment, the utter disbelief--this was what had gotten her fired in the first place. It was why she'd walked out. Principle. That important thing she relied on. Held to above all else. It was the principle of the thing and if that was good enough for Abigail Adams, it was good enough for her.

Except...

She couldn't quit this job. Not after _one day_. She hadn't even had her debuting article. She hadn't shown her skills to her hometown. She couldn't lose two jobs in two weeks.

Which meant...

The unthinkable.

"Tone it down a notch?" she verified.

"Yeah," he said, more eager now, encouraged by her conciliatory tone. "You know. More of a profile. A social introduction."

"A profile," she said, licking her lips, as if saying it could somehow make it less than the farce than it so clearly was. "A social introduction."

He rubbed his hands together. "You got it," he said. "Five hundred words to me by the end of the day."

She forced a smile that she didn't feel at all. Pressed down her feelings of pride and of pressure and just kept telling herself that a job was a job, and she was Rory Gilmore and she _could_ do this. Want was another issue entirely. She just needed to cling to the mere fact that she could and therefore she _would_.

"No problem," she said. And she almost even believed it herself.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I almost waited until Monday to post this, but decided to be nice :) Hopefully someone is around this weekend to read it! Shall we see how Rory handles her rejection on multiple fronts? Thanks all!

CHAPTER SEVEN

An interview and a short walk back to Luke's later, Rory was well on the way to completing her second first article about Stars Hollow's new principal. Turned out that Lily Carmody could play a mean game of Yahtzee, liked to visit the North Carolina coast, and had a secret penchant for finding new ways to cook tuna.

Interesting, perhaps, but so utterly provincial. Corny. Lame. There were fifty thousand words for it and none of them exactly got her excited to write it up into an article. Because, no matter how she packaged it, it was going to be a completely cliche and pointless and how could she even put her name on this?

Because she wanted the job. She wanted to prove she could do anything, even this. She just had to get over herself.

Resolved, she leaned over her laptop again, squinting at it in the diner's sunlight. She probably should have gone home. The light and the noise of other diners were not exactly helping her focus on the mundane aspects of a principal's life. Who knew that high school students were actually _right_: their teachers really _didn't_ have lives.

"Already got a new assignment?" Luke asked, glancing at Rory's laptop.

"Sort of," she said. "I'm re-tackling the issue of the new principal."

Luke looked slightly surprised. "But I thought you finished that masterpiece yesterday."

"I did," Rory said, wishing again that she'd gone home. Just because she was accepting the humiliation of being reassigned her article did not mean she wished to rehash it with everyone she saw. Or with Luke. Same difference. "And it was quite a masterpiece. But, apparently, we don't like masterpieces here in Stars Hollow. We like social news."

Luke seemed to consider this. "Sounds about right."

"About right?" Rory asked. While she would write what she had to, she needed to be validated on this. There was a principle here. "It's ludicrous."

"So, you're writing it again because...?"

"Because I need the money," Rory admitted. "But that still doesn't change the principle of the matter."

"The principle about the principal," Luke said. "Got it."

Rory's eyes narrowed. "I get the sense you are not taking me very seriously."

Luke's expression did not change. "I take you very seriously," he said. "I take all Gilmores seriously. I mean, after all this time surrounded by them, don't you think I've learned that much?"

"I would like to think so," Rory said. "But men are slow learners."

At that, Luke just rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and you Gilmores are _so_ quick at it."

"Hey!" Rory said. "I do believe I've been insulted. Do you know what happens when you insult Gilmore women? Do you know what I could tell my mother?"

"Like it makes a difference," Luke said with an indifferent shrug. "What's she going to do to me? Call of the wedding we never re-planned?"

There was truth to that. Luke had been there through every up and down, through all of her mother's other romances, together and apart, joined and torn asunder. Perhaps marriage wasn't the best thing for them--too much drama. There was probably a reason both she and her mother kept finding reasons not to commit. There were few guys would could keep up with them. Luke--he had a shot, though. At least, Rory liked to think so.

She smiled. "You don't like dressing up, anyway," Rory said lightly. "It's probably better not to bring your antisocial behavior together with my mother's eccentricities just yet."

"You're telling me," Luke said. "Now, lunch?"

"Lunch?"

"Yeah, food. I can't have you taking up one of my tables without eating _something_."

"Ah, yes," Rory said. "You do randomly like to be a good business manager."

"Somehow, making money means serving food," Luke said with a shrug. "I didn't make the rules, I'm just trying to live by them. How about a sandwich?"

"You think you can win me over with food?"

"It's worked before."

"A cheeseburger?"

"With a side of cheese fries."

"You're offering fries?"

"I've given up trying to change you. And don't even get me started on your mother. So cheeseburger and cheese fries coming up."

That was good enough for her.

-o-

She could mentally check the rewritten article off her list. Which was progress. Rory liked making progress. It made her feel like she was in control and really, she liked control. Not in that power-hungry, "I want to rule the world way," but in that control made her feel like her life wasn't completely chaotic and without direction way.

So, next thing. Dean.

She didn't want to think about Dean.

So, next thing. Actually unpacking. Which required getting her truck. Which required a trip to the mechanic. Which could require talking to _Dean_.

Two birds, one stone. She could do that. Not that she had any choice. She didn't want to know what her rental bill would be at this point.

The mechanic shop was just as greasy as she remembered. Only, this time she was told to wait right there, and Gypsy promptly yelled into the back. "Hey, Forester! Come here!"

Rory shifted uncomfortably, watching as Gypsy then shifted through some paperwork, attaching a few sheets to a clipboard. "Is it good news?" she asked.

Gypsy looked up at her. "I've got your bill and the details here," she said. "But I'll let Dean talk to you about the final assessment. We take cash or credit, remember. Visa or Discover these days. Okay?"

"Fantastic," Rory said, even plastering a smile on her face for good measure. Just because her day was supremely awful didn't mean everyone's day had to be. Rory may have been a bit self-absorbed, but she wasn't that inconsiderate. And really, of all the people to take it out on, small town mechanics didn't seem like the ideal candidate.

Her train of thought vanished when Dean appeared again, running a hand across his sweaty brow as he stepped behind the desk. His smile looked as fake as Rory's felt. "Hey," he said. "You came for the truck?"

"Well either that or I've just taken a sudden interest in auto mechanics," she said. "Though I must say, I am impressed with the incredible tire collection you all have up over there. Who know there were so many different kinds of tires? Snow tires, performance tires, tire tires. I had assumed that tires were tires, but clearly I was under-informed."

Dean had picked up the clipboard and nodded vaguely at her. "Well, at least you didn't need to replace the tires on this thing. They were worn, but leave that for the company. Your only goal is to get it back to the rental place."

"Which I can do now?" Rory asked, hopefully. Even if she didn't know what was going on in Dean's mind, even if she was reduced to writing social drivel, maybe she could at least unpack her life and return the truck.

"Sure can," he say, offering her the clipboard.

He was being very professional, which was probably what he was supposed to do, since he _was_ a professional, but Rory couldn't help but want more. After all, this wasn't some overweight repair man with a bald spot and bad body odor. This was Dean, and if she wanted a better follow up to the night before, she was going to have to work it.

"You know, I had a really good time last night," Rory said, taking the board and signing it absently. "I mean, it was great to be out and about downtown after so long. And getting to know you again. I mean, talking to you has always been, well, amazing. And I hadn't realized how much I missed it, until, you know, we did it again. Talking, that is. Conversing with one another."

He was nodding, a faint line appearing between his eyebrows. "Yeah. Talking," he said, as if he agreed with her. "You always have a lot to say."

"And you, too," she said quickly. "I mean, wow. College. And back here. Working two jobs again. I can't even imagine. I can barely even handle one."

"Well, it's not always fun," he said. "But you do what you have to do."

"Right," Rory said. "And that's very noble. Very...selfless. And it can't be all bad, because I know you love cars. So, at least you've got that." She mentally kicked herself for making it sound so much like a letdown. She wanted him to say _yes_ to another night out, not feel like all his dreams were broken. Not that the two were mutually exclusive, but still. Somehow depressing Dean didn't seem like a good lead in to asking him out.

Too bad she didn't have experience with this kind of thing--the whole asking guys out thing. Dean had always been so good about it. Jess had been difficult from time to time, naturally, but Jess was always difficult. And Logan was old-fashioned enough to want to ask her out, so that had worked out to her advantage. And none of that was really relevant at the moment, because none of it was going to help her get Dean to say _yes_ when it looked like he just wanted her to go far, far away. Which she couldn't blame him as all she seemed to be able to do was ramble about the letdowns of his life.

"Yeah," he said, almost blessedly oblivious to Rory's thought processes. "That's why I applied here. It's only two afternoons a week, but that's all I could manage. My dad likes to know the store's being watched over by someone in the family, most of the time."

"That makes sense," Rory said, glad to see that she still wasn't out in the cold just yet. "And that must be kind of neat. I mean, being in _charge_ of a store. It seems like I'm rarely in charge of anything. Which is probably a good thing. Because if I were _in charge_ of something I'm not sure it'd ever get done. Because, making decisions--so not my thing."

Dean's smiled brightened a little, with what seemed to be humor.

"And you're laughing at me."

"I'm not laughing," Dean insisted, a blush rising in his cheeks as he ducked his head, his bangs falling low over his head.

"No? Then what is that smile?"

"It's a _smile_," Dean said. "Notice how _smile_ is a totally different word than _laughing_."

"The word, maybe. But think of it conceptually. The laughter is relating to amusement. So is the smile. So, when I say you are _laughing _at me, I am referring to the fact that you are _amused_ by me. Or by my eccentricities, rather. Which is, rather harsh. As we've only just seen each other three times in the last five years."

His grin had widened to include his dimples and he nodded in admittance. "Okay, so I'm laughing at you," he said. "I apologize. I would hate for you to think that I don't take you seriously."

She tossed her head a little in mock indignation. "I suppose I can forgive you," she said. "If..."

He raised his eyebrows. "If?"

"If you agree to dinner with me again Friday night."

His dimples faded a little, though his smile tried to stay. "Dinner?"

She refused to be daunted by his lackluster response. "Yeah, you know, the thing with food and talking, much like what we did last night?"

"Well--"

"That's the only way," Rory said, a glint of warning in her eyes. "Or I will be mortally offended for life. And you don't want to mortally offend a Gilmore. The entire clan would never forgive you."

"True," he said. "And I would hate to alienate the _entire_ Gilmore clan."

She nodded gravely. "So, seven, Friday? Same bat time, same bat channel?"

"Yeah," he said. "Okay."

"Perfect," she said. "So we can save both our skins."

He held the clipboard out to her. "Now that that's settled, you think you're ready to pay?"

"Well, that just sounds dirty," she said. "We're back to our adult movie roots."

"The divorcee and the journalist in the garage."

"I like it," she said. "An appropriate sequel."

"Which is just what every adult movie needs," he said. "An equally appalling sequel."

She grinned. Apparently, along with an Ivy League education and years of hard fought real world experience, she also had managed to develop a seductive edge. "So, you take credit?"

He raised an eyebrow playfully. "Among other things."

"She said Discover, right?"

"Works for me."

-o-

So, she'd had to rewrite her story. Her hopes and dreams of turning Stars Hollow upside down were going to be harder to accomplish than she'd expected. But that didn't mean they were impossible...just harder.

And Rory liked a challenge. It would give her something to occupy her time as she figured out what on earth she was doing next. In fact, it seemed very appropriate. Rory needed goals, needed obstacles to surmount or she would have to face the fact that she had lost the most lucrative job of her career. She wasn't ready for that. Not yet. Not ready to think about how maybe she'd screwed up.

Because she didn't screw up. She couldn't. Failure was not a word she knew. Sometimes, things didn't work out, sometimes things like boyfriends and classes and stuff, but that wasn't the same as failure. That was just a fork in the road. Unexpected, but ultimately for the best.

Just like this. Because now she was home and she could figure herself out here and show everyone just what they were missing. Just what she could do.

But--and there was always a but--the day was _not_ a complete loss. She'd been preemptive in her pessimistic musings. Because, even after the article, even after the date weirdness, she had secured _another _date with the new, mysterious Dean.

The new, mysterious, really _buff_ Dean. She had never thought herself so susceptible to physical charms...none of her boyfriends had been particularly muscular, but she had to admit, that looking at this version of Dean was a pleasure unlike one she'd experienced before. The date would be worth it for that reason alone.

The firsts of this trip back weren't what she expected. Which just meant the seconds had to be all the better.

Second articles, second dates, second chances. Yes, seconds were _definitely_ her thing.

-o-

She'd meant to call Lane sooner. She really had. Lane was, after all, one of her best friends.

Or had been.

She needed to be honest with herself. She and Lane--they were just _different_ now. No matter how much they loved each other, no matter how _fun_ it was to talk to one another, their lives simply were not compatible.

Not that they hadn't tried. After the twins were born, communication had been hit and miss, but hitting more often than missing. The emails, the phone calls--all still there, even after Rory settled into her new rootless life across the country.

But then had come the third baby.

Apparently, three was just that much harder than two, Rory couldn't even imagine. She did not have experience with children. Babysitting was a job she hadn't been subjected to, partly because she'd never had time to hold down such a commitment, and partly because no one asked. Probably for good reason. She could be a Yale graduate, but that didn't mean she was good with children.

And now, Lane had three.

Now, the hit and miss was more missing than hitting, but that didn't mean they weren't still friends. Or that Rory wasn't going to call Lane up and see what they could do together.

She still had Lane's number programmed into her phone and she still recognized the voice when she answered, though she had to admit, Lane sounded far more harried than she remembered.

"Hey, Lane," she said.

"Rory!" Lane exclaimed. "Rory! How are you! I heard you were back! I mean, who hasn't heard that you're back. And writing--already! At the paper. That's just so great!"

"Yeah, yeah," Rory said. "It's quite the change."

"No kidding!" Lane enthused. "I mean, you never mentioned you were quitting. Or coming back. It all just sort of happened. Next thing I knew, your U-Haul had died downtown and it was like you never left."

"Remarkable, I know," Rory said. "I always have wanted to make a dramatic entrance."

"So, how are things? Why are you back? For how long?"

"Things are good. And I'm back because I needed the change. Life was so...complicated," Rory tried to explain.

"Complicated," Lane agreed. "I know that feeling! I thought having the twins was bad, but adding in Jane to the mix? It's like 24/7 insanity. I'm not sure what I was--"

There was a crash on the other end of the phone and Rory winced.

"Oh...dear," Lane said, suddenly sounded distant. "I think I...I think I'm needed in the other room. Maybe for awhile."

"Oh, well--"

"Call me later?" Lane said. "Maybe we can get together sometime. You know, when I don't have three little monkeys permanently attached to my legs."

"Sure," Rory was saying.

"Great, good hearing from you," Lane said quickly. "Bye."

The line went dead even before Rory could say goodbye.

Perplexed, she ended the call and looked at her phone.

So much for catching up.

And so much for picking up where things left off.

And there was more evidence why having children was simply an evil ploy set up by society to keep people from having lives. It wasn't an altogether bad ploy, but a ploy it was indeed. One Rory was not sure she'd _ever_ be ready to breech.

-o-

Now that she had the truck, she realized she probably needed to unpack it. When she picked it up from the garage at closing time that evening, she was more than slightly disappointed that Dean still wasn't there, even if she'd known he wouldn't be. It hadn't occurred to her, however, that Dean would have been rather helpful as she had a truck full of things to unpack.

On the other end, she'd coerced some friends into helping her--a few friends from work she'd acquired and more importantly, their boyfriends and brothers. Young men made such a project go quickly.

Parked back in front of her mother's house, she opened up the back and realized just how lucky she'd been.

"How did you end up with so much stuff?" Lorelai asked, joining her and standing with her arms across her chest. "You've only been gone four years and the first time you left, you took the _bus_."

"I was on the campaign trail," Rory said. "I didn't _need_ stuff."

"Yeah, that was much simpler then," her mother said. "Except that I never knew where you were. Made stalking you rather difficult."

"I must admit, your desire to stalk was never a reason I settled in the first place."

"Right, right," Lorelai said with a shrug. "You think that a job at the Detroit Free Press was worthwhile. Advancing your career and whatnot. Shows how much you know."

"Well, I'm glad you agree," Rory said. "It certainly made sense at the time--stalking or no stalking."

"I still can't figure out how you got so much _stuff_."

"I had an apartment to fill," Rory tried to reason, looking at the mismatched supply of furniture and stacks of boxes.

"Literally?" her mom asked. She shook her head slowly, still transfixed but the sheer volume of _stuff_. "I'm going to have to call in for reinforcements."

"Such as?"

"Well, Luke's pretty handy."

Rory looked at her mother. "I'm sure he'll be thrilled."

Lorelai flashed her a winning smile. "Of course he will!"


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I'm late with this and still need to do my replies, but I'm getting there. Thanks!

CHAPTER EIGHT

Luke was not thrilled.

Of course, that didn't carry much weight. Luke was hardly ever thrilled.

"Are you serious?" he asked when he saw the truck. "How is it that you have _that_ much stuff?"

"That's what I asked her," Lorelai chimed in.

Exasperated, Rory rolled her eyes. "As much fun as it is to live in a barren apartment, having stuff simply seemed more entertaining."

"But hardly more practical," her mother said.

"As if you should talk."

"She has a point there," Luke said. "You two are perfect for each other. I just don't know what we're going to do with all of it. I mean, how many chairs do you two need in a house that size?"

"Need? Need is such a relative term," Rory said.

"And besides," Lorelai said. "Now we'll have enough furniture to host all those parties we keep talking about."

"Ooh, parties," Rory said. "That would be fun."

"We never talk about parties," Luke said.

"Well, now's a perfect time to start."

Luke leveled them both with slitted eyes. "We'd better get going," he muttered, climbing into the truck. "This will take all afternoon."

"See?" Lorelai asked, grinning at her. "Thrilled."

-o-

Hours later, complete with a sore back, and a ludicrous bill from the U-Haul place, Rory was finally back home and settled into her overstuffed room.

Luke had stuck around long enough to roughly arrange the furniture--the things that fit, anyway. She squeezed in a chair with an end table along with a desk, in addition to her bed. She even found space for the small TV she owned. The rest of it--the dining set, the cheap bookcases, and the rest, was still stashed in the back of the living room. That was a mess she'd sort out with her mother later.

The boxes, however, lined one wall of her room from floor to ceiling. It was rather daunting. In fact, looking at it, all she wanted to do was to go to sleep and never wake up.

However, that didn't seem like a wise idea. She was a little afraid that if she did fall asleep, the stack would tip in the night and crush her to death. Which really would be a crappy way to die. Crushed by all her stuff after she'd already done the hard part.

Therefore, she needed to make a dent in it. Most of them were books, anyway, so all she had to do was stick them on the built-ins, and she did recall that she'd packed them according to genre, which would make setting them up so much easier.

She was on the second stack of boxes, sore and achy from the amount of lifting, and wished she'd bribed Luke to help her with this part, too. In fact, she was considering calling him back over, or at least fetching her mother, who could at least make this more fun, if not provide some assistance.

That was when she saw the box.

It was small and nondescript. A plain, brown box with _Dean_ scribbled in black Sharpie on the side.

Her Dean box.

Her mother had kept it for her at first, saying she'd want it someday. True, that had been the first breakup, which would always be the worst--for her, anyway. The later ones had been sad, but not nearly as painful, probably because she'd sort of seen them coming, even if she'd pretended she hadn't. Those two times, she'd managed to put the Dean box away on her own.

It had made the trip to Michigan, though Rory couldn't admit to looking at it all that often. There was always a book to read or an article to write. Thinking on past boyfriends hardly seemed like a way to spend her time--at least not a way that would do her any good. In a few fits of organizational rage, Rory had considered going through it, weeding it out, maybe even returning some of the items, but she'd never had the heart. Her mom was right. Her Dean box meant something. It was her first box and it was, by far, the most important. The Jess box was sparse. The Logan box was hard to look at.

But the Dean box...

Pulling it from the stacks, she took it to the bed and sat down next to it. Carefully, she pulled open the top, her breath catching in her throat as she looked inside.

And there it was. The remnants of her history with Dean. The things he'd given her, mementos of things they'd done together. The keys to the car he'd made her. The cornstarch she'd stolen after their first kiss. The gloves from the ball. The book he'd been reading to her the night they fell asleep together. A CD with _The Candy Man_ on it. The bracelet he'd made for her, the one she'd always worn until Jess.

She remembered. She remembered driving the car, knowing how much he'd put into it and knowing how much he loved her. She remembered Jess crashing it and Dean just wanting to know if Jess was gone.

She remembered the smile on his face as he offered her a pop--he'd called it a pop, not a soda, and as she was guessing, he was leaning down and kissing her. Her first kiss. Her best kiss.

The look on his face when she'd described the ball, the way he did _not_ want to go. But then, seeing him in his tails and gloves at the bottom of the stairs, smiling, looking only at her.

The feeling of his arm around her, the way he'd defended her, the way he read to her like he wouldn't be doing anything else.

The gentle touch of his lips, his body warm against hers, holding her, loving her, laughing with her. Her first time, for that instant, perfect. Perfect, because, in that moment, there was no Lindsay, there was no Jess, there was just Dean and how much he loved her.

The bracelet. The one he'd made. From that moment on, she'd known he'd cared for her. Cared for her enough to create, to think, to give. Jess wouldn't give her gifts; he was beyond that. Logan showered her with rich and expensive things--beautiful things, extravagant things.

Dean gave her a car he'd made, a bracelet he'd created. He'd given her her first kiss, her first time, her first sense of being really and truly beautiful, of being good and properly loved.

And then, the cards. Hand written cards for every anniversary they'd celebrated. First dates, first kisses, first everythings. Notes scrawled with his practiced hand, notes that said _I love you_ and _Every day I wake up and can't believe you're with me_. Things that could be so cliche, things she'd seen in movies, things she had never doubted Dean meant.

Lastly, the pictures. Them together. Smiling. And she began to realize that, in almost all of them, he was looking at her. She was looking at the camera, posing, sometimes stupidly, sometimes all smiles, but his arm was always around her and his eyes never seemed to leave her face.

Looking through it wasn't just a trip down memory lane. Wasn't just a fond remembrance of what had been. It was a love story. Dean had loved her from the very start. Not like she had loved him, but in the way that a soulmate loved its other half. The perfect love story, one that should never have ended. The stuff of novels, of fairy tales, of little old women who could look back and say just how _wonderful_ it all was.

And she'd _missed_ it. She'd never seen it. She'd let it end time and time again and suddenly she had no idea_ why_. It could have been her epic romance, her happily ever after, her porch-time reflections to grandchildren on warm summer afternoons. It had been hers--and she'd never seen it until now.

Which made sense, suddenly. Why Dean had fought so hard. Why Dean had hurt so much. Why Dean had turned to Lindsay so quickly, so desperately, and why he'd come back to Rory so blindly.

Her fingers lingered on the items, touching each one, trying to remember the feelings, trying to remember the excitement. Trying to remember why Jess had been better, why Logan had been more provocative. Dean was warm and familiar and safe--

And she wanted him back. She wanted to finish their story, give them another chance, to tell her grandchildren over a glass of lemonade just how they'd been meant to be.

But she'd taken off the bracelet. She'd packed the photos. She'd wrecked the car. She'd broken Dean's heart.

Packing the items back in the box, she wondered if it was finally too late.

-o-

Sometimes, Rory forgot how _slow_ life could be in Stars Hollow.

Not for a lack of trying, of course, because the townspeople always seemed very active. All that talking and gossiping and spying on each other was quite time-consuming and it certainly did keep life from being dull.

But talking and gossiping and spying didn't make for good news.

"We're cutting back to eight pages for tomorrow," Ned said. "I just don't have anything I need you to write."

Eight pages and nothing for Rory to write? "What about news briefs?" she asked. "I can write news briefs! They're short, they don't even take up much room."

He didn't look convinced. "I wouldn't want to waste your talent--"

"Waste it!" she cried. "Please!"

"Well, we do need something for the Recipe Corner," he said thoughtfully. "Usually, Aileen Westcott handles that but she decided she needed to boycott sugar and people just don't have a taste for things without sugar."

"The Recipe Corner?" Rory asked, uncertain she'd heard him right. Rather, _hoping_ she hadn't.

"Yeah," he said brightly. "A nice little recipe, easy to make but unique in taste. It's a real hit with the ladies around town."

"Recipes?"

His face fell a little. "I don't suppose you know much about cooking, do you?"

"No!" she said, suddenly realizing just how precarious her grip on the assignment was. Recipe or not, it was an assignment. And she needed it. More than that, she wanted it. "I know plenty about cooking. You know, ovens and stoves and stuff. I even know to use a hot pad because hot pads keep you from burning your hand. And trivets--for the table. Don't want to burn the table. In fact, some hot pads can also be trivets, though I think the actual definition of a trivet may encompass something slightly greater, but--"

His face carried a look akin to pain and torture, though it was glossed over poorly with a smile. "Great," he said in a distinctively lackluster way. "Have it to me by tomorrow," he said. "When you drop it off, we'll talk about your next piece."

The promise of another piece, of another chance at success--well, that was enough to put up with a recipe for. After all, she reminded herself, she had to work her way up from the bottom, right?

The fact that this bottom was a whole lot lower than before--well, that was just all the more reason to knock this one out of the park and scale that journalistic ladder before Ned knew what hit him.

-o-

She plopped down at the counter at Luke's. Literally--plopped. The sound wasn't _quite_ right, not totally a foot being pulled out of mud, but pretty close to it. And there was simply no other word for it.

The diner was slow in the mid-afternoon and Luke was obsessively cleaning the counter with a rag that looked like it'd seen better days. That made her wonder what the point was--cleaning a counter with a dirty-looking rag seemed rather counterproductive, but this _was_ Luke after all. The cleaning was nothing more than habitual, and the rag was probably simply an old friend of his he couldn't give up.

"What are you thinking about?"

His voice startled her a little and she realized he was looking at her, looking at him. "Oh, about the cleaning capabilities of used rags."

"Funny," Luke said. "Just don't look to see where I grab your coffee mug from."

"Who says I'm going to order coffee?"

"The fact that you down at least three pots of it a day is kind of a dead giveaway," he muttered, scrubbing at a particularly dried-on piece of food.

"Ah, you would think," Rory said. "But my visit today isn't for food."

Looking up at her, Luke cast her a bored gaze. "And so you're taking up space at my counter why?"

"Your stellar company?"

"You didn't even lie about that well."

"I need a recipe."

"You know, I heard they invented these things called recipe books--"

"No, I mean for my next assignment," Rory said. "I have to write the Recipe Corner."

"Again, I might refer you to a recipe book--"

Rory rolled her eyes. "Have you always been this difficult? Or is this just a new phase you're trying out to see how many people you can annoy into leaving your presence?"

Luke cocked his head, pausing. "That's not a bad idea."

"So, do you have a recipe?" Rory asked. "One _not_ from a cookbook?"

"Well, let's see, you could try asking, huh, maybe a _chef_," Luke suggested sarcastically.

"Ah, yes, which is why possibly I thought you could be of some assistance," Rory said. "With you _owning a diner_ and all."

"You think people in Stars Hollow want to know how I make my burgers? Quarter pound ground beef, six minutes on the fire, bun, cheese, lettuce and tomato. Real rocket science."

"You know, it's rather remarkable people come back here. It must be your winning personality that they just can't resist."

He stopped his cleaning to stare at her. "So, you came here to insult me?"

"Too easy," Rory said. "Now, how about that coffee?"

"I thought this wasn't a business visit."

"I'm mixing business and pleasure. And your coffee is insatiably addictive. Must be the fact that you hardly clean the pot out at the end of the day."

"To go?" Luke asked hopefully.

"Unless you've got some amazing secret for mashed potatoes."

Luke was already reaching for the travel cup.

-o-

A chef was a fantastic idea. Luke would have been easier, there was no doubt, but Sookie would provide the far more tasty option. That was, if Sookie was ever able to focus long enough to pick one.

"You mean I get to decide which recipe goes in the Recipe Corner?" she asked, more than a little enthusiastic when Rory sought her out.

"Well, I was hoping you could help me out a little," Rory said. "We don't exactly have longstanding family recipes at our place."

"Hey," Lorelai said. "What about my remarkable frozen pizzas?"

"I'm not sure opening a box qualifies."

"But it's _how_ I open the box that makes it special," her mother offered.

"I was hoping for something a bit more...involved."

Sookie was already thinking. "Like an entree? Or maybe a nice dessert. People like their desserts. Or maybe an appetizers--something fresh and summery."

"You don't even _like_ the Recipe Corner," Lorelai said.

Sookie glared at her. "That was before I got to pick the dish," she said. "I'm a little tired of reading about how to add _oleo_. Oleo doesn't even really _exist _anymore. We need some recipes more recent than the Great Depression."

"I think maybe dessert," Rory said. "Because, if I cook it, then at least there's something very much worth eating."

"Chocolate or fruit?"

"Fruit," Rory said. In response to her mother's look, she shrugged. "They say your metabolism slows down at age twenty-five."

"Fruit...strawberries, I think," Sookie said, oblivious to Rory's interaction with her mother. "Strawberries area great summer treat, though maybe a little overused. Strawberry shortcakes everywhere you look. But they are much easier to get. You don't want an impractical recipe."

Rory didn't have the heart to tell her that a recipe that involved buying any fresh ingredients was probably a little impractical for her.

"I'd be more worried about it requiring the use of a stove top," Lorelai added in. "Rory and stove tops have not always been on the best of terms."

"I was seven," Rory said.

"And you nearly burned the house down."

"How was I supposed to know it was still on?"

"Usually the little red light is a dead give away."

"But you never cooked," Rory insisted. "So I had no reference for the concept of hot burners."

"There are just some things a mother assumes her daughter can figure out."

Rory rolled her eyes. "Are you ever going to let this go?"

"Probably not," her mother said with a shrug.

"I've got it!" Sookie exclaimed. "Profiteroles! They're not fruit based, but definitely very scrumptious. One of Jackson's favorites, though I can't get the kids to touch them."

"Maybe something I can actually pronounce," Rory said.

"Otherwise, it'll be too hard to pull it off as her own," Lorelai said.

Sookie nodded good-naturedly. "Something simpler then," she mused. "Rum cake?"

"Perfect," her mother said. "Alcohol and cake. What more do people want?"

"The baking process takes all the alcohol out," Sookie said dismissively.

"Not that way Miss Patty makes it," Lorelai said.

But Sookie was hardly listening, going off on the nuanced variations of such cakes and how alcohol was great for cooking, except for the way it acted as a flame accelerant.

When her mother quipped that you were suppose to cook with it, not light yourself on fire with it, Rory could only smile. Cooking and fires and everything else aside, her second assignment was, most decidedly, in the bag.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Shall we see how Rory's seconds go around? This may seem a bit slow, but it's all going somewhere. Slowly but surely. Thanks for sticking it out with me!

CHAPTER NINE

She was awoken by the thwap of something against her head.

Said object fell onto the bed next to her and she groaned, sincerely hoping that it was nothing more than some kind of demented dream where she was getting crapped on by pterydactyls. Though the dream involved much running and extensive hair washing, it wasn't altogether a bad dream. Quite vivid in its details, in fact, so really it could have been worse.

"Oh, great journalist, you're sleeping while the rest of Stars Hollow is enjoying your debut article. It's like that whole Debutante Ball all over again only far less prep time. And no guys emasculating themselves in tails and gloves."

Grumbling, she rolled over to face her mother, squinting up at her through sleep-laden eyelids. "Is there a reason you are disturbing my well earned rest for incessant jabber?"

"Incessant jabber?" Lorelai asked pointedly, raising her eyebrows. "Methinks you've been gone too long, my dear. This isn't even close to incessant. Persistent--maybe. But incessant? We have a long way to go."

"I just want to sleep," Rory said, flopping back onto her stomach. "Or is this another attribute that you've acquired in the years of my absence--the sudden, perverse urge to be a morning person?"

"Well, I could ask you the same," her mother said. "Since when did my daughter with grand aspirations sleep _in_?"

"Since I moved back home and could," Rory said. "And when I discovered that Saturday morning cartoons were nothing more than a myth."

"But it's your big day!" Lorelai insisted. "Your first article back home! Are you telling me that you really don't want to go down to Doose's and buy _every_ copy there?"

Rory peaked up at her mother from under her covers. "Isn't that your job?"

"Well, I bought five copies. I probably would have bought more but the old men were standing behind me and glaring. I really hate to be glared at. Especially by little old men. Especially the _nice_ ones. So I figured I'd leave them something to do while they drank their coffee, which Luke will appreciate so he doesn't have to talk to them as much. And really, I also figured that the whole point of you writing for the paper was the let people read it and if I purloined all the copies, then how would anyone else get to bask in your brilliance?"

"I think we've reached the incessant phase," Rory said.

"Quite possibly," her mother agreed. "It's on page two. Lead article under the Local News section. Not bad for your first outing. Usually, this kind of thing wouldn't make it past the Social page."

This caught Rory's attention and she sat up. "It made Local News?"

"Like I said, page two," her mother confirmed with a nod to the paper.

Fully awake now, Rory grabbed at the paper, opening it in a flurry.

And there it was. Page two, Local News. _Meet SHH's New Principal_.

"I thought the title was a little hokey," Lorelai said.

"I didn't think of the title."

"I don't suppose I should mention that the part about her favorite shellfish being scallops is hokey, should I?"

Rory spared her only a second to cast an annoyed glare. "That was what they wanted to hear."

"Of course. Since I care _deeply_ about her interest in shellfish."

"It doesn't matter," Rory said, beaming down at the page. "It's on page _two_."

"And it's skillfully done," her mother agreed. "If anyone can make a school principal interesting, my dear, it's you. I wouldn't even bother if it was by someone else."

"That would be a crime, indeed," Rory said.

"Naturally. Then I'd never know that she likes to plant lilies. I should make sure she knows that they're really hard to maintain."

Rory rolled her eyes. "You can't just be quiet and enjoy the moment?"

"You mean we're not enjoying it now?"

"I think _you're_ enjoying it," Rory said. "I'm not so sure it's for all the right reasons, though."

"Don't be ridiculous!" her mother said. "I did go out and _buy_ the paper. Multiple copies. But cleverly leaving enough for the rest of the town to enjoy. Quite the contrary, I'm thrilled to have my daughter, the journalist, gracing us all with her superb writing."

There was pride there, Rory knew that without a doubt. Pride and love and Rory couldn't help but smiling.

Of course, seeing her name in ink never hurt.

And ignoring the rest of the article certainly helped, too.

-o-

Apparently, people in Stars Hollow really did read their paper. Carefully. And paid attention to bylines. How everyone in town knew she'd published an article, she wasn't entirely sure, yet everyone she saw on her trip downtown stopped to compliment her.

"It was so _lovely_, dear," Miss Patty told her on the street corner. "Such beautiful prose. Really, gorgeous. You can really see that education coming right on out. You make it shine, sweetie."

Rory smiled, both flattered and desperate to get away. "Yes, well, I figure if you're going to write about the principal, you might as well do it right. After all, it is her introduction to the town."

"Of course, dear," Miss Patty cooed. "You even made her sound _womanly_. I thought she sounded awfully masculine when I saw her at Doose's the other day. Those funny looking suits. Women think they help them look _powerful_ or some such nonsense, but it only makes them look _ridiculous_. I always recommend floral prints and bright colors." With that, Miss Patty gave her khakis and muted green button up shirt a once over.

"They certainly do make a statement," Rory said, as diplomatically as she could. Some battles were simply not worth fighting. She hadn't been gone long enough to forget that simple truth when it came to Stars Hollow and Miss Patty.

"Well, they do say a picture is worth a thousand words," the older woman replied, waggling her eyebrow suggestively.

Rory tried not to grimace, though she could not figure out who, exactly, Miss Patty was trying to seduce here. Or what she was even talking about. Come to think about it, Rory wasn't sure she had any idea what was going on at all, which, really, seemed about typical.

"You know," Miss Patty was saying. "It's about time that paper had some life in it. Something to spice it up. I can only imagine what you'd do if you _ran_ the thing. I think that Ned Arglinton is past his prime. Nice fellow, but he's just in it for the money."

Rory just stared at her. "Well, we all have our things," she offered, stupidly, because really, what was she supposed to say?

Miss Patty just smiled, patting Rory on the arm. "Of course, dear," she said. "That's what makes you so ideal for the job."

Rory didn't know whether to be flattered or horrified or what so she didn't say anything as the older woman walked away.

She was nuts, after all, always had been. Ned Arlington was no journalist, that was true, but for Rory to run the paper--why would Rory run a paper in a town like this? Maybe she wanted to be an editor someday, but here?

Why was she taking Miss Patty seriously at all?  Maybe because she wanted to _like_ the idea and she was afraid to let herself.

Which really was just more evidence that she needed to get out of here. And fast. Stars Hollow would make her insane one way or another.

-o-

He didn't have a leather jacket anymore.

Well, maybe he did. It was summer, after all, so it wasn't like people were walking around with jackets unless they had a profound desire to suffer from heat exhaustion and pit out their undershirt. But she could tell. The leather jacket had been so quintessentially Dean, so very much her boyfriend. It had been stylish and distinctive and had highlighted his thin frame. In short, it'd been perfect for him--then.

Dean wasn't the same anymore. His walk had been sure before, bold and outgoing, perfect for the bold and outgoing leather jacket. But now?

Now, he carried himself just as upright, but...older. Mature. A subtle confidence. A deep understanding. Not a walk for a leather jacket.

Which was kind of too bad. Rory had liked how it smelled, the warmth of it. Leather was almost a little decadent, just like dating him had made her feel at times.

But the fact was, he didn't _need_ the leather jacket anymore. What he had now didn't come from clothing. In fact, she was pretty sure he could walk around in his honest-to-God birthday suit and he'd be carrying even more of a punch.

Rory flushed at the thought, her mind spinning with the onslaught of the memory of Dean's flesh against hers, his lips on her skin, the careful touch, the--

This was hardly the time. Or the place. And if she started drooling, she was pretty sure that would freak Dean right out of this not-date they were going on.

Still, it was hard _not_ to think about.

Dean, however, seemed pretty content to not think about it at all. In fact, he seemed to be utterly capable of forgetting that they'd done way more than talk a lot in their younger years. He seemed oblivious to the lingering memory of kisses, of touches, of--

She needed a drink. Wine would be nice, a beer would definitely do it, but water would have to suffice.

With a shaking hand, she reached out and grabbed hers off the table, downing it in large gulps.

When she put it down, Dean was looking at her curiously. "You okay?"

Rory laughed, wiping her hand across her mouth. "Yeah, yeah," she said. "Just thirsty. Funny how it creeps up on you like that."

He nodded skeptically.

"I'm sure it's comforting to know that I didn't get any less neurotic while I was away," she said. "Some things you never grow out of."

He laughed at that, and the pressure in her chest eased. Her neurosis: a fail-proof fallback. "Many things will change, but _that_ never will," Dean said with confidence. "You're Rory Gilmore, after all. Neurosis is part of who you are."

It wasn't exactly high praise, but the tone of his voice was so sure and so warm, that she couldn't help but blush. "You do know how to flatter a girl," she said. "You must have been working on that while away at school."

He snorted a little. "I did many things at school," he said. "Refining my flattery skills were not among them."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Somehow, I doubt that."

He rolled his eyes. "What about you?" he prompted.

"What about me?" she asked.

"You hinted at my lack of love life," he said. "So, what's your story?"

That was a good sign, she figured. This inquiry to her love life was more than casual conversation. He wouldn't be interested unless it crossed his mind. It wouldn't cross his mind unless he was curious. He wouldn't be curious if he wasn't interested _in her_. She smiled shyly, feeling her stomach flutter. "I can't say I have much more to report."

"I heard you almost got married."

"Almost," she said. "He wanted to go one way, I wanted to go another. There wasn't any middle ground."

Dean looked sympathetic--not politely so, but genuinely. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's tough to get so close with someone only to have it fall apart."

He didn't say, _like it did with Lindsay_. He didn't have to. Rory quickly replied, "It was my choice. I could have said yes and gone with him but I don't know. It just didn't feel right."

This time Dean smiled. But it was such a curious smile, one Rory couldn't place. Like he knew the answer before she said it. "You've always been one who knows what you want," he said. "It's something very strong about you. No one can dissuade you from what you want."

She felt herself blush furiously. "It's not like that--" she tried to protest.

"No, no," he said quickly. "I mean, it's not a bad thing. It's just you. For all your uncertainty and anxiety, you know the most important things: what _you_ need. That's not wrong. That's how you survive. It's how anyone survives. It's a good lesson to learn."

He wasn't being mean. He was being _nice_ in fact. Complimentary. Real. But he sounded--wistful, sad, knowing, regretful. There was so much there, so much under the surface. Untapped emotions. Things she didn't understand. Couldn't understand. Things that explained why Dean didn't wear his leather jacket, why he wouldn't date her and she felt so _close_ but so far away.

He was right, though. She did know what she wanted. She just didn't know how to _get_ it. "Have you had their seafood?" she asked suddenly.

"Seafood?"

"Yeah," she said, ignoring the note of confusion in his voice. She knew what she wanted. She also knew that sometimes she was invariably chicken. "I was thinking about the scallops."

His brow furrowed, he looked back at the menu. "I've never tried them," he said. "I had the shrimp once. It wasn't bad."

"I think scallops just sound interesting. Like, the word. Not really the fish. Or really, shellfish Did you know they're actually shellfish? I wonder why people are so much more allergic to shellfish than fish? What is it about that shell, anyway?"

She was rambling. The classic Gilmore ramble. Saying too many words to avoid saying the ones that really needed to be said. And trying to hide the fact that she had no idea what on earth to say.

"I, uh," Dean said, turning his menu over to look at it further. "I don't know."

Of course he didn't. Why would he? Why would _anyone_?

Rory had never been more relieved to see the waiter in her life.

The waiter smiled blandly at her, clearly not interested. "Can I take your order?"

Dean just raised his eyebrows at her and waited.

Flustered, Rory plastered a smile on her face, which was a pretty safe fallback in any given situation. "Can you tell me about your seafood?"

-o-

She had never been so turned on by someone eating broccoli. Apparently, she had a vegetable kink.

Maybe it was because she expected him to simply devour his meat. He'd ordered a burger, medium rare, which was all very manly and good, even on that sesame bun loaded with lettuce and ketchup. But that side of veggies, tucked next to the burger, for some reason got her going. Because vegetables were so practical, so healthy, and the way he nipped each one with his fork suggested that he'd eaten them fastidiously for years on end, just like that.

Funny, she'd never noticed before. But then, there were a lot of things she'd never noticed.

Besides, it said Dean cared about himself. He didn't eat them to be polite like Logan. He didn't ignore them like Jess. He _liked_ them.

Rory had _no_ idea why she liked that so much.

If only he knew what she was thinking about. Luckily, he seemed rather oblivious, making chitchat with the best of them while Rory dallied with her own helping of fries and chicken (not seafood, she didn't even _like _seafood, except maybe crab cakes, but that hardly counted).

"So, I saw your article today," he said after taking a drink of his water.

"You did?" she asked, almost surprised. She probably shouldn't have been--that was a very Dean thing to do--but maybe it was just flattering enough to surprise her. Sure, everyone seemed to read it. But not everyone was Dean.

"Of course," he replied, picking up his fork again. "When have I ever _not_ read something you've written?"

"Very true," she said. "You did suffer through many things when you were with me."

Spearing a vegetable, he just grinned. "I didn't really suffer that much," he said. "It was just new to me back then."

"Ah," she said, watching him devour the stock of broccoli. "And what'd you think?"

After swallowing, he said, "Very insightful. You know, if you wanted to know the new principal's favorite color."

Her shoulders sagged. "You thought it was dumb."

"No," he said quickly. "I just thought it was...you know, almost beneath you. I've read your stuff before. I know what you're capable of. And this? I mean, the writing is flawless, don't get me wrong, but you were tackling far tougher content when you were still in high school. And you just sound sort of, I don't know, restricted in the way you're writing it. I mean, I've seen you tackle the mundane before and you've always done it with a flair. Remember the Chilton parking lot?"

Everyone had been so effusive in their praise, talking about how good it was, how great it was to read her--but no one, not even her own _mother_ had recognized this. They just hadn't seen how, while it could be _good_, it fundamentally wasn't _her_.

And yet Dean had seen right through it. Moreover, had figured out _exactly_ why it felt so wrong.

"I'm sorry," he said after a moment, looking a little stricken, and Rory realized she'd been staring at him. "I didn't mean--I mean, it's very good. The best writing the town's had, well, ever."

"No," she said quickly. "You didn't offend me."

He still looked wide-eyed, a bit like a deer in the headlights, and her guilt factor doubled. "I really, I mean, I didn't _mean_--" he tried to explain.

"No, no, really," she said, a smile on her face now. "I'm just--I mean, you get it."

His fear looked more like confusion, and she could practically still see him at seventeen, kissing her in Doose's, totally perplexed as she ran away. "I get it?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said. "I mean, you totally understand why this is all so _weird_. Being back here and writing. It's what I want to do, but it's just so different. I'm used to a big city and writing articles with meat and grit to them. Even the bare news there is so much more straightforward. Here, it's--it's convoluted at times and completely and utterly inane. But that's why it's home. But I just wish there was a way to bridge it, you know? To have the familiarity and still have the excitement."

He was watching her, she became aware, watching her talk, his fork still poised in his hand.

"I'm talking too much," she said with a sheepish grin. "I mean, I'm rambling."

"No, it's good," Dean said. "I wouldn't expect any less from you."

"Yes," Rory agreed, turning her fork to her own plate. "Some things never change."

Dean pushed his food on his plate, looking more than a bit rueful. "Some things never should."

And other things do, Rory thought. She thought it hard and wanted to say it, to hear herself say it, but she took a bite instead.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: I really love hearing from you guys--and there's some interesting thoughts on Rory and where she's headed, which really makes me happy to know that some of you are invested in Rory's journey here. Should we see how her date pans out? Do you think she's going to get lucky ;)

CHAPTER TEN

It hadn't happened before, but it was going to happen now.

This was the guy who had kissed her out of the blue at Doose's. The one who had wandered through endless bookstores with her. The one who had jumped on a bus and paid the toll just to say _hi_.

Needless to say, restraint wasn't really one of Dean's strong points, at least not when it came to love.

So, the fact that they'd made it this long without doing _something_ was rather remarkable. A streak that would end, Rory could only be sure, tonight.

To be sure, though, she wasn't taking chances. A nice long walk home would do it--letting the stars and the cool night air do what Rory Gilmore's sexual wiles could not. Dean always had been keen on ambience.

And these days Rory was awfully keen on Dean.

Keen on Dean. That rhymed.

That had to be a good sign.

So Rory was going to play it all for what it was worth. The ambience, Dean's laid-back nature, and the rhyming. "You know, taking walks here is _so _much nicer than in Detroit."

"Not a fan of the city lights?" Dean asked.

"City lights, yes," Rory said. "But not so much the pollution and high crime rate."

Dean just shook his head. "You act like big cities have nothing going for them."

"No, they're very nice," Rory said. "Very busy. Much more to write about."

With a roll of his eyes, Dean smiled a little. "There's a certain romance to big cities," he said. "They're so spectacular in a way, not like mountains or oceans or anything, but human marvels. Things we've done. And there's so many _people_. I guess some people feel like you could get lost in all of them, but I always found it kind of reassuring. To look around and know I wasn't alone in the world. That I could look at a stranger on the street and see something of myself in them. It made me believe in people more. When everyone knows everyone you lose a little of that, I think."

That was a rather serious thought, a bit more serious than Rory had expected. A little bit more introspective than she had thought the mood had suggested. She was hoping for fun and frolicking at this point. Philosophy could come later and with much less solemnity.

Still, she couldn't very well ignore it all now. "Did you like Chicago then?" she asked. "You know, when you lived there."

A grin eased across his face, easy and wistful. "I did," he said. "Still do. It's been a long time since I've lived there, but I've always kind of felt like part of me is there. Even if Stars Hollow is my town now, Chicago is sort of like a dream. That time and that place in my life where things were simple. Simple things aren't always the most exciting or even the best. But they mean something because of that simplicity. I thought about going back there, you know. After graduation."

"You could have gone to Detroit," she offered. "Big car city that it is."

"I had an offer there," he said. "I was looking forward to visiting it, to checking it out, but--"

But then his father had a heart attack. She knew. Everyone knew. She swallowed. "Yeah, life can happen," she said to fill the awkwardness.

They walked a minute more in silence. Restlessness itched on Rory's skin, tickling the back of her throat. To do something, to say something, to grab the moment, seize the day, carpe diem and all that. "Well, it seems to me that if you're here, then Stars Hollow really isn't all that bad."

He paused at that, pulling his lower lip between his teeth.

"Rory," he said slowly shaking his head. "I don't want you to get the wrong idea."

"Wrong idea?" she asked, blinking innocently. "Wrong idea about what?"

"About _us_," he said. "About what it is we're doing."

"We're hanging out," Rory said with an indifferent shrug, or at least the attempt at one. "Catching up, that kind of thing."

The look on Dean's face was one of patient resignation. "Rory--"

She looked at him quite seriously, matching his eyes with her own determined stare. "Dean."

Sighing, he looked toward the sky. "Is that what you really think?"

"That's what it really is," Rory said. "I mean, maybe not everything it ever _will_ be, but, you know, for now--"

"That," Dean said, his attention stirring. "That right there. I don't know where this is going."

"And neither do I," she said. "That's why we're just playing this as it goes."

He shook his head. "I don't want to just play it as it goes," he said. "I don't--I mean, I can't. I'm not ready for a girlfriend."

"I'm not asking you to be my boyfriend," Rory said, feeling a little hurt. "We're not sixteen anymore, Dean. I think we can just spend time together as two adults and just let things happen as they happen."

His jaw clenched--it was a look she recognized. A look where he was trying to say something, but trying to say it right. Like he didn't want to. "I'm not sure I can do this."

"I don't understand the problem," Rory blurted finally. "I like you. You like me. I mean, I can still _feel_ it, you know? And we've always gotten along so _well_ together. So, no, it's not like I'm looking for a steady boyfriend with plans for 2.5 kids and a house in the suburbs, but I just think we can enjoy each other's company. For now."

His eyes darted away, and they looked suspiciously bright. "I don't think I'm ready for this."

"Ready? Dean--"

"Rory, please," he said. "Not everything in the world is just about you. I have a lot of respect for you and yes, I'm attracted to you, which is _exactly_ why this is a bad idea. Why we can't be anything more than friends."

The words weren't cruel, but they weren't nice either. They were blunt and honest and for some reason Rory felt like she'd been slapped. Dean had never hurt her like this before--Jess, all the time. Logan, yes, as an unfortunate side-effect of his personality. But Dean--Dean had made her sad, before, but not like this. Not in the way that she'd actually just been rejected when she was trying so hard for something.

Part of her wanted to crumble. To cry right there. But she wasn't sixteen. She wouldn't play the part of the desperate damsel in distress, which would get Dean faster than anything else. She would be the woman she knew she could be.

"Dean," she said softly. "The things in the past--the things we've done in the past--they're a part of us, sure. But they're not what makes us now. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't attracted to you. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to take this to the next step. But I can be your friend."

It was pathetic almost, the sound of her voice, the sheer desperation of it. How much she wanted him, how afraid she was that he would walk away and close the door between them forever and for good.

It was so irrational. Because she'd never _needed_ a boyfriend. She was smart and successful and her life didn't hinge on a boy, much less Dean, but--

Feelings were pathetic. Feelings were irrational. She would just have to figure that out as she went along.

When Dean nodded, Rory felt relief blossom in her chest.

"Okay," he said. "I just need to make sure you get it. Where I'm coming from with this."

She didn't get it, not really. She didn't know why he was so hesitant, why he seemed so afraid, why the last four years were like an anomaly that he didn't want to share with her. She didn't get why he was working a job he didn't like in a town he didn't want to be in and why there was so much between them that he seemed completely willing to overlook.

She was smart, she was "special," and she didn't have a clue.

She was also, she supposed, a rather skilled liar. "Yeah," she said, smiling. "Of course."

And though Dean was different, he was still as trusting as he'd ever been. "I'll see you later," he said.

Rory didn't doubt that. She couldn't. Because she was going to make sure it happened.

-o-

The recipe was a success. As much as a recipe could be a success. Though there was no byline on it (because who bylined recipes anyway?), everyone still knew it was hers.

God bless small towns. Because after last night, she certainly needed the morale pick-me-up.

Ned was so thrilled to see her that morning, Rory was suddenly afraid the man might hug her. While making her employer happy was certainly a plus, she did not wish to be hugged by relative strangers.

Still, the man was overjoyed. "People _love_ you," he said. "We even sold out this morning! And that was just a _recipe_!"

Rory brightened. "Well, I'm glad it's working out so well," she said.

"I think we need to bump you up," he said. "I mean, give you more to write."

This was _exactly_ what Rory wanted to hear. "I would love to," she said readily. "I've been wondering about editorials, or maybe more investigative type writing, something more--"

He waved a hand dismissively at her. "Think _bigger_."

Rory's mind swirled, possibilities swarming. As crappy as life could be going on other fronts, the thought of her journalism career taking off here was rather invigorating. Bigger? A column? A consistent ongoing feature? Undercover reporting?

"I want to make you my main writer," he said, rubbing his hands to together.

That stopped her. It sounded good and all, but, "What does that mean?"

"You'd be the voice of Stars Hollow," Ned said, making a random gesture with his hand. "The one that everyone would see out and about, covering things. The name people would come to associate with the news. I mean, I've _tried_ it with other reporters, but they're so hit and miss."

Again, it all sounded good, but the voice of Stars Hollow? "Would I get to pick my own assignments?"

He shrugged a little. "More than now," he said. "I mean, I'd still need you to cover the staples. Major events, you're the one who's there. Important games, contests, city meetings. All that stuff is you. And then the features, too. About people who stand out. People like to read about that. And they like to read you. It's a can't-lose proposition."

"But I'd get more say in things, right?" Rory asked. "I mean, for feature ideas."

"Sure, sure," Ned said quickly. "You see, I get how this works. You're a journalist, Rory, a real one. And this? This is a sham of a real paper, and I know that, too. But the thing is, it's just what I do to fill the time. Someone has to run this thing, someone has to report on the town, because in a place like this, all we have is our own glory and no one else is going to promote it, so we have to do it ourselves. This is a way to benefit _both _of us. You can get your writing, your name in print. I can sell copies. With any luck, I'll get to retire early at this rate. Win-win. All around."

Okay, that _did_ sound good. And logical. She had clearly underestimated Ned. Not that he was a stellar journalist, but that he was actually fairly perceptive, something his chubby belly and pit-stained Hawaiian shirts hardly suggested.

Really, what _did_ she have to lose? Being a staff reporter was good and all, but there was no doubt she wanted more. Needed more. "Okay," she said finally. "Okay."

Ned stuck out his hand and Rory grasped his back, holding on while he shook it vigorously. "Fantastic!" he said. "I'll have the contract brought up so we can put you on full time."

-o-

It was a day of good surprises, she decided. A fact that would surely persist. After all, she believed fully in fate when it was working for her. It was only when it was running contrary to what she wanted that she disowned it. And, certainly, her promotion (yes, she _could _call it that) was a sign of good things to come.

However, good things didn't just happen. She needed to be proactive. Her luck was hot, so she was going to use it while she could. Which is why going to Luke's wasn't just about food. But information, too.

Luke was at the counter, wearing one of his typical plaid shirts, that baseball cap backwards on his head. It was such a typical sight that Rory found it vaguely reassuring. Something that could never change. Years away, promotions, all of it, and Luke was still Luke.

Which still meant he knew more than he liked to let on. If the man was ever inclined to gossip, he could probably blow Miss Patty out of the water.

However, Luke was not _inclined _to gossip, but Rory had special skills to draw him out. Because she was Rory Gilmore. And she knew for a fact that Luke Danes was nothing but a teddy bear in desperate and sarcastic denial.

"So," she said, sitting at the counter.

He eyed her suspiciously. Perhaps he was onto her wily ways. Not that it mattered. Which was why he replied, "So."

There were many things she wanted to know about. She wanted to know if that was the same hat he always wore or if he rotated them. She wanted to know if her mother truly was losing her mind to middle-age or if it was just a passing phase. She wanted to know if this thing called Luke and Lorelai would actually ever get together in a way that made sense.

But there was something else. Something bigger. Something _Dean_. And given what she'd seen between the two, she knew there was something there worth probing about. "Have you seen Dean today?"

"Do I look like Dean's father?"

She thought about that, probably more than she should have. "He's a little too tall to be yours," she said. "And his hair is far softer looking. I haven't felt yours, though, so I guess I can't comment."

"That was _rhetorical_," Luke said.

"Really? I hadn't noticed," Rory replied with a slight smile. "Do you know where my mother is?"

"Have you tried, oh, I don't know, the _inn_?" Luke asked. "You know, where she _works_."

Rory considered this. "I suppose she could be."

"And you graduated from Yale?"

"I just figured you would know," Rory said with a shrug. "What's up with you two anyway?"

"Maybe you could ask her that."

"But I'm asking _you_," Rory said, a bit insistently, leaning forward with her elbows on the counter. Luke was being his typically evasive self, but he wasn't offended. She still had wiggle room. And she was going to exploit it. Her mother was oddly tight-lipped when it came to Luke, and Rory still couldn't figure out _why_. It had been _four years_ since their not-quite wedding. Four years and her mother still wore the necklace but showed no signs of any deeper commitment.

"She's your mother," Luke said. "We get along well, but we'll know when we're ready for more. It comes and goes."

Vague, yet true. Which made it more annoying. "What about Dean?"

Luke didn't even look up at her. "I really do prefer women," Luke said without missing a beat.

"I meant, what's with you and Dean?"

Luke sighed, looking up at Rory, this time his exasperation was evident. "I don't remember you being this _annoying_ before. Did you develop some kind of deviant personality while you were gone? Or is this just what happens to all journalists?" 

"Side effect of my day job," she admitted sadly. "A Gilmore as a journalist is perhaps a scary combination."

"No kidding," Luke said. "And I thought I had the difficult one."

"You're still not answering."

"About Dean?"

"No, about the consequences of a career in journalism. Yes, Dean."

"Dean's Dean."

"And he's a regular."

"So he likes to eat out," Luke said. "Most people do."

"But you seem to know him."

"So do you."

Rory just sighed. "But you seem to know him _better_. He's so...distant, almost. I mean, polite and all because he is Dean, but just not totally Dean."

"Well, you haven't been with him for years."

"But it's Dean!"

Luke stopped and studied her.

"What?" Rory asked. "Why do I get the feeling that I suddenly grew antlers or something ridiculous on my head?"

"I'm just trying to figure out why you think it _wouldn't_ be different."

"Because it's just been like I've always known Dean. We were on again and then off again and each time we came back to each other, it was like nothing had happened. But this time it's like something really _has_ happened, something big, and I just can't quite figure it out."

"Rory," Luke said, leaning both hands on his side of the counter. "You know I'm crazy about you. I think you're smart and funny and I like having you around. But I think you need to figure this one out on your own."

"Why do people keep _telling_ me that?" Rory said in exasperation. "I mean, this whole you're-an-adult-figure-it-out thing is really highly overrated. I just want to know what's up with Dean."

"You talk like he's still the same kid you were with," Luke said. "He isn't. Not all change is dramatic and seen around town. And I say this carefully, but you can't expect him to open up to you just like that. I mean, do you think he's just sat around the last six years pining?"

Well, that was something to think about. It's not like she thought Dean had done _nothing _in these past few years--after all, she knew that he'd been to college, that he'd had job opportunities. She knew that his disposition had mellowed a little, that there was a new seriousness about him. And clearly, he'd taken up exercise on a much more vigorous level. But she'd always sort of thought that he'd been _Dean_. That he'd be hers when she was ready for him.

"Look," Luke said. "Dean's been through a lot. Just...remember that, okay? I don't want to see either of you get hurt."

Luke's protective side was underplayed but clearly evident. She knew he had quasi-fatherly feelings toward her, despite his best efforts to deny it and avoid it, and at this point was entirely possible that she saw him in the role ever so slightly. So, that wasn't that unusual. And she could only guess that her mother's continued presence in his life had heightened that sense of connection.

But he wasn't just worried about her. This wasn't just another one of those _Rory's special_ kind of deals. Luke--he was worried about Dean.

And that wouldn't be all that surprising either. Luke's heart was big under that gruff facade. She'd seen him try hard with Jess. She'd heard about him trying hard with April.

But Dean?

Something _had_ happened. Something had changed. And she still had no idea what. And for all she could ask questions, the only answer she got was that she just needed to figure it out.

She sighed. "If you see him, just tell him I said hi, okay?"

Luke's eyes narrowed. "Do I look like your messenger service?"

Rory considered this. "And if I say yes?"

"Just go away."

With a grin on her face, Rory stood. "Going," she said. "You don't have to threaten me twice. Well, maybe you do, but I think you get the idea. Right there is why cliches are dangerous things. They come out--wham, just like that--before you can even think about it and realize that it actually doesn't make _any_ sense."

Before Luke could growl, she was already out the door.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: This one seems kind of slow to me, but it is a set up chapter thematically. This fic just sort of meanders, I think, in a very roundabout, Stars Hollow kind of way. Rory is back and forth and up and down, and I just hope you all can humor me enough to see it as growth :) Thanks!

CHAPTER ELEVEN

She found her mother at the inn. Staring at a wall.

What was more disturbing, when Rory thought about it, was that it seemed perfectly normal. Not quite _normal_ normal, but certainly not abnormal. Or abnormally normal. Just normally abnormal.

Whatever the case, the point was, it didn't actually faze her.

Instead she joined Lorelai, cocking her head and staring thoughtfully at the blank space on the wall.

After a few moments, Rory leaned closer and whispered. "What are we doing?"

Her mother collected and released a sigh. "Contemplating."

"I was hoping for something more specific."

"Artwork," Lorelai said. "I need new artwork."

"Oh," Rory said. "You mean you don't want a blank wall?"

"Well, look at it," her mother said, nodding at the empty place. "It just screams for something to fill it. There are some places that are just made for that kind of thing, especially nooks. You can't have a nook without decoration, otherwise you're really not utilizing the nook at all. Because what else do you do in a nook beside appreciate the decoration?"

"Good point," Rory said. "Utilization of a nook is often overlooked."

 "Unduly so," her mother said. Then she paused before looking at her daughter. "Somehow I'm not sure you actually care about nooks, decorative or otherwise."

"Of course I care," Rory said. "Deeply and passionately. Nooks are very important. Crannies, maybe not so much, only in relationship to the nooks they correspond to."

"Liar."

"I do it for you."

"What do you want again?"

"Do you believe in fate?"

Lorelai frowned. "Okay, random," she said. "Unless, you know, it was fate that made you ask the question, in which case then it might make sense because then at least it's connected to something."

Rory rolled her eyes. "I've just been thinking about it," she said. "About how I ended up back home. Writing for the Gazette. Falling into new routines that are practically old routines and if somehow it's all _meant_ to happen."

"Are you sure you're my daughter?" 

"Mom--"

"Because my daughter has _never_ believed in fate," she said. "Whatever happened to hard work and perseverance and--"

"Mom--"

"And making lists!" Lorelai said. "You love lists. Pros and cons and--"

"I still do _all_ those things!" Rory protested. "But it's just--I don't know. Sometimes the way this is working out, I just feel like it's all something I can't control."

Her mother paused, looking at her as carefully as though she was a wall in need of decoration. "You're really serious, aren't you?"

"Look, I'm just asking your opinion," Rory said. She did not need the mockery. Not that she ever _needed_ it, but it was a part of how her life was but today she just didn't have the heart. "Just forget it."

"No, no," Lorelai said, seeming to sense Rory's desperation. Perhaps her maternal instincts weren't completely impaired, as they sometimes seemed to be. "Stop. Now, listen. You're thinking about fate, right? About whether or not there's something pushing us in certain directions that we can't control?"

Rory shrugged.

"Well, everyone thinks that from time to time," her mother said. "Like, for example. Last week a guest ran into that doorway and knocked the picture on this wall over, effectively shattering the glass. The shattering of the glass scratched the picture, which, by the way, was an original painting by some old lady who used to live here. It was all very traumatic and awful and Michel nearly cried for a day straight. _But_, if this guest _hadn't_ knocked into the wall, then I would never have had the chance to replace it. So I never would have been staring at this wall. And if I hadn't been staring at this wall, then, who knows? You may not have asked the question at all. So, really, yes, there _is _fate. It's just not always as dramatic as we like to think."

"So, you don't think that it's fate that you and Luke are you and Luke?"

Lorelai laughed a little. "Maybe," she said. "If fate has a very roundabout way of doing things." 

"What about me? Being back and all." 

"You know why you quit your job, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then maybe circumstances pushed you to it, but that was still all you, babe."

Rory hesitated. "What about--what about me and Dean?"

At that, her mother raised her eyebrows. "Last I heard, there wasn't much to you and Dean."

"Well, that's why I'm asking," Rory said. "Because it seems like there should be. Like fate brought us both back here for a reason and everything is clicking and--"

"Honey, that's called hormones," Lorelai said. "The little things that make you go all wacky for a guy when you see him. I'm pretty sure we had this talk when you turned twelve. They've calmed down some, but you still have them."

"But it's more than just a feeling," Rory insisted. "It's the history and--"

"Does Dean feel the same way?"

Rory sighed. The simplicity of her mother's question was an immediate downer. Because she knew the answer. "He's being very evasive."

Her mother smiled sympathetically. "Look, fate may exist. There are undoubtedly forces out there that are setting things up, moving pieces in some kind of cosmic chess game. But it doesn't make you act. It can't dictate your feelings. And fate or no fate, it still takes two. Right now, all you've got is one."

"Well," Rory said, turning back to the wall. "I think we'll have more luck with your problem."

She didn't have to look at her mother to know she was smiling. Not a lighthearted smile, but a sympathetic one. But this wasn't something Lorelai could fix. Not that she was the type who would do that anyway. Sink or swim. Fate or choice, this was Rory's challenge and she'd just have to figure it out, no matter how difficult Dean Forester seemed bent on making it.

-o-

Writing was always a difficult process. Writers were by default nearly always temperamental and had to work around the whims of their muses. That was where journalists suffered greatly. Not only were they expected to meet word quotas on a daily basis, but they were expected to do it _well_. Other writers could produce pages of crap to get to a paragraph worth saving and call it a good day. But good day or bad day, Rory had a thousand words to come up with, and given how much of a hit her writing seemed to be, she couldn't hit a clunker just yet.

It wasn't like she didn't have stuff to work with. Odd stuff, yes, but even she had to admit that it was entertaining. Miss Patty's quotes were as excessive and flamboyant as her personality. All Rory had to do was string them together coherently and let Miss Patty sell herself.

Additionally, it was her first piece under the new contract, her first piece as a regular staffed member. Her first piece as the voice of Stars Hollow. Sure, Ned had suggested the content based on some rumors he'd heard, but Rory was already being granted the daunting task of writing about Miss Patty. This was an article of proof, an article of ego, an article that was a gateway to the rest of her so-called career.

So, why couldn't she focus?

It would have been easy to blame it on Luke--the way he talked about Dean, the way he _knew_ Dean, the negative reaction to the whole idea that she'd _expected_ Dean to be hers again.

But it wasn't just Luke. It was her mother, too. They both knew more, they both knew _Dean_, and she couldn't figure out why she was still at arm's distance.

Because she was Rory. She was the voice of Stars Hollow. It really kind of seemed like the world was hers for the taking and everyone was playing along--everyone except _Dean_.

Rory had a healthy sense of self. That didn't make her wrong. And really, it was okay if Dean didn't find her attractive anymore or if Dean had other girls he was interested in. But the fact remained that she was into him and he was into her and it was so damn obvious--

Wait, she'd heard that before.

She sighed.

She didn't have time to think about this. Well, she _had_ time, she just didn't have it now. She was the voice of Stars Hollow and more importantly, she had a deadline. Rory didn't miss deadlines. Not without good reason anyway, and obsessing over her ex-boyfriend hardly seemed like a valid excuse.

Except it _was_ valid. Because she wasn't used to not being able to follow her heart where it wanted to go. It was true that sometimes things didn't work out the way she wanted them to, but she still had always been able to figure out why. And now, it wasn't so much that Dean was putting her off as it was that she couldn't wrap her mind around it.

And hadn't she been on this train of thought before? Since when had her logic taken her in a circular motion and when was she finally going to just let it go? Leave it to fate?

Because fate was Rory's fair-weathered friend and she didn't like where it was taking her when it came to one very attractive ex-boyfriend.

Again, though, she'd been here before. She'd probably be here again. Which meant for tonight she needed to either talk to her mom or let it go.

Her mother would be merciless. Probably still vague and without any real advice. At least not advice she wanted to hear.

Which meant letting it go. Easier said than done, perhaps. But mind over matter. She could do that. She knew she could.

She looked back at her computer and went to the word count. Forty-five words.

With a sigh, she put her fingers back on the keys. Only 955 left to go.

-o-

She finished the article. Just as she'd suspected, Miss Patty's quotes told the story enough. Once Rory had finally gotten her mind through its clogged thinking process, finishing it really hadn't been that hard.

Too bad the rest of her life wouldn't fall into place like that. Too bad her ability to let go lasted all of five hours, four of which she was asleep during. Because when the morning came, that awful sense of discontent was with her still.

The worst part was that she really couldn't place _what_ was wrong. She had a successful career. She was back home and everyone so was _thrilled_ to see her. She was with her mom, she was growing close to Luke again, so what on _earth_ was the problem?

Okay, so she _knew_, but she just didn't want to talk about it. She didn't want to admit it. Because...because it wasn't something within her comfort zone, wasn't something she even wanted to _deal_ with, something she'd never _had_ to deal with in the past.

There was a song Rory knew, not well, but that she'd heard. Older, she figured, by some group she really should know the name of but really couldn't quite remember. All she could remember was the hook, of course, and it was the kind of line that got stuck in her head, on endless repeat.

_You can't always get what you want_.

And that was far too true.

She wanted to try for more with Dean. Not just a little summer fling, not just because he was suddenly new and attractive and _exciting_ like he had been at the beginning. But because she did. There were a million reasons, but it all came down to the simple fact that this wasn't a passing fantasy. It was a real desire, a staying one, a desire for Dean.

Yes, the Dean who she'd let walk away like five billion times. That Dean. Maybe she was just lonely. Maybe it really _was_ just nostalgia. Maybe she was simply falling victim to the unnatural attractiveness of his newly adult body.

But whatever the reason, she wanted him. And she had to be his _friend_.

The deadly words in the dating world. Just friends. She'd relegated Dean to that role before and he'd gotten married too young because of it. She hardly thought she was prone to the same mistake, but the last time they'd really tried to be _just friends_, they'd ended up in an adulterous affair with an unhappy ending.

But whatever! History! Past! She was grown and he certainly was as well.

But she couldn't always get what she wanted. Not even a Gilmore could be that lucky.

Besides, the song had one more line she knew. _If you try sometimes, you might just find...you get what you need_.

And what she needed wasn't a boyfriend.

She needed to reestablish her career. Re-find her direction. And that much she could say with certainty was happening.

One published piece in the Gazette and her second one finished. She needed to start in the places that made sense, the places where she only had to convince people to hire her, to read her, not to fall in love with her. She'd won over Ned, she was winning over Stars Hollow, and now she just needed to direct some of her energy into figuring out where on earth that would take her next.

-o-

Ned was in the office when she got there in the morning, devouring a doughnut (glazed with some kind of hazelnut frosting, it looked like) and downing some coffee. He brightened when he saw her, which was always sort of pleasant. She didn't know Ned well, but she didn't have to. Everyone liked to see people happy, especially to see people happy in response to them. It did wonders for the ego. And Rory needed that boost at the moment, more than she had realized.

"You have it?" he asked.

She held out a disk and a hard copy. "One thousand words, just as requested," Rory said proudly. "Though I'm sure Miss Patty would have gladly talked for about a thousand more."

Ned accepted them, eyes scanning the page. "Well, old Patty's just lucky I humor her at all," he said. He looked up at Rory with a conspiratorial wag of his eyebrow. "She doesn't realize that we don't _have_ to publish stuff about her. I could have easily spiced up the town meeting report enough to fill the space."

"Well, I'm sure Miss Patty will be quite grateful," Rory said. "Though those town meetings--pretty intense."

"I know!" Ned said, oblivious to Rory's quasi-sarcasm. "Taylor had some nutso ideas last night. Did you know that he wants to rezone the team boundaries for Little League? Do you have any idea what that would do to the town?"

"Make new teams?"

"It would disrupt the entire flow of the season!"

"Oh," Rory said, hoping that she was seeming more interested than her feigned attempts really justified. "We certainly wouldn't want that. Little Leaguers, after all, carry bats and all. Dangerous thing to make bat-wielding kids mad."

He looked at her, head cocked, perplexed. Then he laughed. "You could probably write one heck of an article about it, couldn't you?"

She raised her eyebrows. "About Little League boundaries?" 

"About anything," Ned said. "You've got talent, kid. More talent than I even know what to do with in some rinky-dink operation like this. I have no idea why you're _really_ here, but I'll take it for as long as I can get."

It was almost like damning with faint praise, but Ned was so sincere. And she couldn't fault the guy, could she? Not when the highlight of his day was his doughnut and coffee? "So you think the Little League thing has potential?" 

He grinned. "I say go for it. As long as you want. Sports page header."

Her eyes lit up. Sports page _header_ was better than Local News secondary. Much better than the Recipe Corner, perhaps even better the Feature page, though that really was a toss up. "You won't be disappointed."

He chuckled, slipping the disk into his archaic machine. "I know I won't," he said. "And, Rory, this article? About Miss Patty? Brilliant."

She couldn't help but beam. Praise was praise. "Thank you."

"Only you could make Miss Patty sound like a true figure of interest and not a town gossip."

"Well she doesn't make it easy," Rory said. 

He scoffed. "Trust me, I know," he said. "I've been writing in this town for nearly thirty years."

"When do you want the baseball piece?"

"Day after tomorrow work?"

"Will do," she said.

Ned nodded. "Good," he said. "Good. I'd request a word count, but I'd rather let you take it where it goes. I can't put restraints on something like this. I'm learning. Slowly. But I'm learning."

He was smiling and Rory was smiling and she was still smiling when she left the office. This was working. This was happening. Her career, wherever it was heading, was solid. Established. Glowing. Sure, she needed to think about where to next, but for now? She could bask in the glory of where she was. Because the way her luck on the job was going, the next step wouldn't be hard to figure out.

Which meant...

Which meant she could focus on other things.

She'd gotten what she needed.

Maybe she could get what she wanted, too.

Okay, so that was sort of a quick turnaround from the night before. After all, a Sports page top story in Stars Hollow still didn't exactly cement her journalism career. Nor did it tell her exactly where she was supposed to go. But this was _fate_. Fate, all over again. It was telling her something. All this momentum. This work stuff, she barely even had to _try_. So if she had what she needed so readily in her grasp, then maybe it was time to try for that whole boyfriend thing that had been bugging her since she saw Dean again.

One thing she knew for sure. If she could write an article about Miss Patty's clandestine operations to kick-start her career as the next Martha Stewart, she could go talk to Dean.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: I'm not quite there with review replies yet--but I wanted to stay somewhat on track with posting. I promise, I will reply as soon as I can. This chapter does reference the fic "Summer Project" by sendintheclowns, which is a part of this verse. That said, you don't have to read the fic to understand it (but I still highly recommend it!). Thanks!

CHAPTER TWELVE

Okay, so she _could_ talk to Dean. That didn't mean she had to talk to Dean _right then_. She could just as easily talk to Dean _later_.

Later, when she felt totally at ease, totally uplifted, totally confident.

Yes, she was totally a coward. But later really did make much more sense, and she was sure fate would will it so if she just waited long enough.

Until then, she needed someone to buoy her spirits. To harness her self-esteem and build her up.

Someone like Lane.

Just because Lane was a mother of three and had apparently lost all ability to maintain a sane life didn't mean that seeing her wouldn't be helpful to Rory's mood. After all, Lane had always been one of Rory's most trusted advisers, not to mention the fact that if anyone could understand Rory's romantic issues, it was Lane. Lane, who had been there through all the relationships and Lane, who was apparently happily married.

The problem was that Lane never seemed to be able to talk on the phone.

So Rory would go to Lane's house. Even if it meant entertaining some munchkins in the process, that would be okay. Lane's kids were pretty cute, after all. All of Lane's exuberance and Zack's easy-going nature rolled up into three little dark-haired kids.

Even before Rory rang the doorbell, Rory could hear the raucous. There was a crash and a yell and a squeal and Rory hesitated to ring the doorbell. Visiting Lane had always been somewhat of an adventure, starting way back when, with her parents' antique shop and the continuous disapproving glares from Lane's mother.

From strict repression and underground flourish to all-out chaos.

When she finally did ring the bell, the noises paused on the other side of the door before picking up with a sudden crescendo.

Something crashed into the door and Rory winced. It was followed by a series of shouts, another crash, and then a high-pitched wail.

Then a scuffle, and she could hear Lane. "All of you, I said _I _would get the door. You don't know who's there and you are far too young--"

The whines that followed were cut off without sympathy. "Up to your rooms and don't hurt each other and don't make a mess and you'll get ice cream when Daddy gets home."

Another scuffle, this time getting softer, and the front door opened.

Lane looked much as Rory remembered--dark hair and glasses and a certain punk rocker look that even motherhood couldn't hide.

But the motherhood was obvious. Rory wasn't sure how, but it was. It was in the smile on Lane's face, the unkempt mess of her hair, the slight bent in her back that suggest she had been hauling around children far too much.

"Rory!" she exclaimed. "You made it!"

"I made it!" Rory agreed. "And you made it, too. I wasn't so sure, hearing that tussle answering the door."

Lane made a scoffing sound. "That? Was the easy part. And they weren't even really excited about you coming. You should see them when we've ordered pizza. They practically storm the poor kid before he even gets a chance to ring the bell."

Rory just raised her eyebrows. "I will remember never to come bearing pizza."

"A wise decision," Lane said. "Now come in! You need to come in!"

Following Lane's arm, Rory slipped in and took in the house. "This one's bigger than your old one."

"Yeah, we decided with the three kids we needed a place that actually had room for people to live. And, you know, a functioning kitchen. And more than one bathroom."

"Tired of sharing with the kids?"

"Tired of sharing with Zack," Lane said, closing the door behind Rory. "He's disgusting."

"Of course," Rory agreed, taking in the room. It was neutral, more neutral than she would have expected from Lane, with comfortable furniture and toys all over the place. "Almost looks like a toy store threw up in here?"

Lane looked at it, almost like she was seeing it for the first time. "Well, we're not doing any formal entertaining," she said. "Not even my mother can keep up with the three of them. And that's saying something since, well, you know my mother."

"I do indeed," Rory said. "Every disapproving glare."

"She loves the kids, though," Lane said. "And with Zack away as much as he is, it's kind of essential."

"Mothers are good for something," Rory said. "Who knew?"

"I know!" Lane agreed. "Do you want to sit down? I made food. Like _food_ food. Real food. That doesn't come in a child-safe container."

"You cook?"

"I pretend."

"I'm intrigued."

"Don't be," Lane said as she moved her way through the living room, easily ignoring a pile of blocks in her path.

"I'd be intrigued by macaroni and cheese," Rory said, sidestepping some weird looking seat.

"We have that at least two times a week for lunch," Lane said. "So I decided you'd get big people food!"

"Because I am indeed a big person. I feel like I could be in Gulliver's Travels."

"Sorry," Lane said. "Your vocabulary decreases significantly when you're around kids all day."

"I don't want to know."

"I will remember not to mention it," Lane said, motioning to the table. "I even got it ready in advance."

"Wow," Rory said. "You even cleared away two place settings."

"It was the least I could do."

"And is that chicken stir fry?"

"I was feeling ambitious."

"Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?"

Lane just shrugged. "I just grew up," she replied. "Having three kids will do that to you, I guess."

Rory just shook her head. "Wonders never cease."

"Now, sit," Lane said. "Before wonders do cease and the kids can't behave themselves any longer."

Obediently, Rory sat and Lane followed suit.

"So, how's work?" Lane asked.

"Work's work," Rory said, piling her fork with rice. "It's been an interesting change, coming from such a big paper to one so small."

"Yeah, kind of a step backwards. Are you sure it's what you want?"

"You ask like I know what I want."

Lane just looked at her. "You've always known what you want."

"Like I said, wonders never cease."

Lane just raised her eyebrows. "This is surely just a temporary blip. Like an anomaly that the universe is still trying to make sense of."

"Well, we can hope," Rory said. "But I've missed Stars Hollow. It seems different now, you know?"

"Kirk tried to repaint the gazebo last year," Lane reported. "But Taylor was up in arms. Staged a whole protest. But after that, just about everything's seemed the same."

"Surely there's better gossip than that," Rory prompted. "I'm counting on you to fill me in on four years of changes."

"Henry Tisdale sold the Mini-Mart," Lane reported thoughtfully. "Oh, and Gina Mueller finally moved out of her parents' house."

"Good for her," Rory said. "I always thought she could do better."

"Well, she moved in with her aunt."

"Baby steps."

"Oh, hey, I saw Dean Forester the other day."

Rory stopped mid-chew, her eyes widening. Then she realized what she was doing and forced herself to swallow. "Oh," she said. "Really."

"Yeah," Lane said, devouring another bite. "Have you seen him? Because he looks _good_."

"Yeah," Rory said. "I've seen him."

"Every time I see him, I can't help but think of you," Lane said with a shrug. "You two always had this _thing_ together."  "Thing?" Rory asked, putting down her sandwich. "What kind of thing?"

Lane looked a little surprised at the seriousness in Rory's voice. Because Rory was being rather intense. But Lane was talking about a _thing_ and she was talking about _Dean_ and Rory really didn't care. "A _thing_ thing," Lane said. "He always seemed so good for you. I'm not sure a lot of guys could have handled you."

"Handled me?"

"You know, totally _understood_ you," Lane said. "It takes a special kind of guy for that. I was always so envious. Because Dean was always going places with you, buying you things, doing the things you wanted. I mean, you got a guy who would go book shopping with you for hours on end, not to mention actually watched CSPAN with you. I wouldn't even watch CSPAN with you. I always kind of thought Mama would have found him to be the perfect first boyfriend--patient and loyal and polite--well, she would have been happy except for the whole boyfriend aspect of it. Well, that and the fact that he wasn't Korean. Or a doctor. Worse, she probably would have tried to neuter him with some ancient Korean ritual."

These were things Rory knew, on some level, but that she hadn't really thought about. She hadn't really processed it. Just how quintessentially _perfect_ Dean had been. The idea that people had been envious of her--that _Lane_ could see it--well, it was a bit surprising. Oddly unnerving, too. Because it reinforced why she wanted him. And accentuated that she didn't have him...yet. "Dean was pretty remarkable," Rory agreed.

"Yeah," she agreed. Then she scrunched her nose. "Except that whole, you know."

Yes, Rory knew. Rory would always know. Because she was the reason for a lot of it. She would obviously never know why he fell in love with Lindsay, if it had ever been love, or if Dean had just been _that_ lonely. What she did know was that Dean was duty-bound until the end and all it did was make Lindsay unhappy, make him unhappy. His weakness had been Rory, and she didn't doubt that, had never doubted it. Yet she'd used it. She'd _used_ it. Dean didn't have to get into bed with her. But Rory didn't have to get into bed with him. And the fact was, he'd loved her. She hadn't really loved him.

"People can change, though," Rory said.

"Oh, I know," Lane said quickly, her eyes lighting. "I mean, did you hear about him going back to school?"  "Yeah," Rory said. "UConn. For engineering."

"I know! For a guy who sucked at math, that's pretty remarkable. And it never went to his head. And did you hear about last summer?"

"Last summer?"

Lane nodded eagerly. "Yeah, last summer with the softball league." 

"You follow the softball league?"

"I have three kids. It's not like there's much else to distract me."

"Softball. Dean. Tell."

"Oh, right," Lane said. She leaned forward. "So, Dean came home every summer, you know, during his break."

"As most college students do."

"Sure," Lane said. "But it was almost like Dean lost his ability to be social. Or maybe his desire, really. Because he just seemed so down all the time. At least until last summer when he started working at Luke's."

"He worked at Luke's?"

Lane blinked innocently. "Of course he did," Lane said. "Luke hired him right after I had Jane."

"Luke _hired_ him?" Rory was incredulous. She didn't live here, sure, but something like that, news like that, surely her mother would have said _something_.

"And you didn't know?" Lane was equally incredulous. "You _have _been out of touch."

"So, what's the point?" Rory prompted.

"The point?"

"Softball!" 

"Oh, right! Well, anyway, he was _terrible_ as a waiter but _great_ at softball. I mean, obviously the guy's been working out, but he was really just exceptional."

It was a rather beautiful image, Rory had to admit. Dean in a dusty t-shirt, face glistening with sweat, his face focused beneath the brim of his hat. But--story at hand. Focus.

"So, they were playing the team from Bloomfield. The Blue Jays?"

"Are there Blue Jays in Bloomfield?"

"Maybe the Bears?"

"There certainly aren't bears"

"It was something alliterative."

"Of course."

Lane shook her head. "Anyway, it was this huge big deal and Luke was all freaking out and Dean was their big secret weapon. But it just so happened to be the team of Lindsay's new fiance."

Rory gaped. "Lindsay got engaged?"

Lane nodded very seriously. "Some Nordic-looking guy. Had about the IQ of an ape if you ask me, which seems just about right. But their kids would have been very blonde. Pretty, too, especially if they didn't get his forehead--it was a little too Neandrathal."

"So what happened? To the Nordic fiance?" 

"Right! Well, Dean was talking to Lindsay and apparently they were very sweet to one another. He even made her laugh. Which is good and sweet, you know, that they would make peace after everything. But Sven there, he wasn't so keen on playing nice. He totally demolished Dean while running the bases, knocked him clean out, which really, figured. Dean had a habit of that."

"Dean has a habit of that?"

"Oh, come on," Lane said. "Electrocution one summer, getting run over by a motorized bike the next, so no one was _really _surprised about the baseball thing. Except for what happened next."

At this point, Rory's mind was spinning. Not only did Lane tell the hardest to follow stories ever, but she was talking about Dean's streak of injuries, which Rory sort of knew about, but didn't really know about and she suddenly feared leaving him alone for any extended period of time. But the fears she had as a wannabe girlfriend were mired in the fact that _there was more_. "What happened next?" Rory asked, though she was not sure she wanted to know.

"Lindsay freaked," Lane said. "Totally. Chewed Sven out. Told him what a jerk he was and threw the ring in his face and stormed off. Everyone around town was saying that she wanted Dean back after that, but nothing came of it. Which is probably good. Because Lindsay and Dean never really was a good combination. They were kind of cute, but after all that, I'm pretty sure that they should not be allowed to cohabitate ever again."

Rory was pretty sure she was still gaping. She was pretty sure she couldn't stop.

Lane just nodded. "I know," she said. "Who'd've a thought? After Dean's fall from grace, he was suddenly town hero again. Only he wouldn't strut it. The ladies gossiped about it _for weeks_. Hottest news of the summer."

Funny. Her mother had only managed to tell her about Sookie's attempt to start a book club that people only joined for her weekly treats.

"Makes you wonder, though," Land said thoughtfully.

"Wonder what?"

She shrugged. "What he'd be like as a boyfriend now."

Rory took a bite. She couldn't reply. Because that was the same thing she'd been asking herself since she got back to town.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: I know, I'm behind again on replies, but I should get there today. If you've read the other fics in this verse, then you'll be prepared for the May Forester that Rory talks to. If not, then I'll just say you'll see more of her in this fic. Her character wasn't well defined in the show, but I've taken some liberties with her, to say the least. Thanks all!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was the same house she remembered. A tall, two-story home, complete with shutters and little green bushes adorning the front. May Forester had been a gardener long before Lorelai ever had, and her gardening style seemed to be a bit more classic--clean and simple and perfectly suburban.

Funny how Rory had never noticed before. Never noticed how upright the house seemed, how proper and _neat_. She'd never hung out there often--whether that was Dean's choosing or hers, she couldn't remember. In fact, she couldn't remember a lot of the details about their time together. Like why she'd hardly met his parents. Why she'd hardly spent time in his room. Why all she'd ever attained was a civil relationship with his parents while he'd nearly been adopted by her mother.

Part of her wondered if that was maybe because of her and her own comfort zone. Because climbing those stairs, she felt anything but at ease.

Maybe it was the way his mother had last looked at her. Maybe it was that last time she'd been in his bedroom, Clara's music blaring, May's stuff cluttering the area. Maybe it was the look on his face when he'd disappeared inside--that sense of guilt that hung over Dean every time he seemed to come near it, toward the end.

Or maybe it was just the fact that she'd never bothered to try. After all, she had her mother, her grandparents, school, applications--everything. She barely had time for a boyfriend, much less a boyfriend's family. Those years had been so crazy and hectic and so full of potential and possibility and she had never been one to let herself be deterred from her dreams.

Well, she was trying now. She still had things to do, things to prove, she just wasn't sure _what_ yet. Her new job at the paper required minimal time and would only reap marginal results. Perhaps it was her time to redevelop her somewhat stagnant social life. Lane was busy with her kids (three of them now, _three_) and not to mention managing her marriage. There were other casual acquaintances and of course Lorelai and Luke, but Rory needed friends _her_ age else she would risk becoming an old maid far before her time. So that left Dean.

Not like _that_. He wasn't a last resort. He was just...Dean. The same old Dean with a brand new glossy cover.

The spark was still there. Rory could sense that. And that spark was about the only exciting thing she had going for her at the moment, so she wasn't about to squander it.

Which meant it was her turn to be on the pursuit. She'd read enough books to know how to do this. She'd been courted enough to have some ideas.

The first step: ring the doorbell.

Nervously, she swallowed, smoothing her shirt reflexively, before pressing the bell.

She heard it echo inside, low and long, and she tucked her hair behind her ear and hoped that she'd chosen an appropriate wardrobe. She could have gone with a skirt, something softer and more feminine, because guys liked that and Dean had always seemed to be attracted to that kind of thing and she wanted to pique his interested. But she didn't want to look like she was trying. That would undo everything. But shorts? She should have gone with capris. They were a nice mix of casual and classy and--

The door opened.

She held her breath, waiting and anxious.

And rightly deflated at the sight of Dean's mother.

But not all was lost. She had to rally. "Hi," she said, smiling as warmly as she could.

Dean's mother looked older. More wrinkles, her hair a little gray, but still the same fastidious woman that Rory remembered. And that critical scowl, that questioning one, was still there. It hadn't always been, of course. At first, Dean's mother had adored her. But the affair--well, the affair seemed to change a lot of people and what a lot of people thought, and clearly May Forester was _not_ over it.

"Hello," May said, her voice measured and polite.

"I'm not sure if you remember me," Rory ventured, fibbing a little. Of course the woman remembered her. How could she not? Unless she gave strangers that look all the time, which would truly be a bit ridiculous.

"Of course I remember you, Rory," May said simply. "How are you these day?"

"Good," Rory said with forced brightness to the obviously forced triviality. "I'm back in town for awhile and I've run into Dean."

May's look was borderline venomous. "He hasn't mentioned you."

"Ah, well, it's just been a few times," Rory said, though she couldn't deny her disappointment. Dean hadn't mentioned her? When all she'd been doing was thinking about him? Well, him and her job and his arms and how much she'd like to touch them. "Is he around?"

"I'm afraid not," May said, and Rory was certain the woman sounded _relieved_ at that.

"Oh," Rory said, rocking on her heels. "Do you know where he is?"

"Why, he's at work."

"At work? But it's nearly eight at night."

"He has to close down the store," May explained. "And then after that, he needs to balance the books for the day and fill out inventory sheets. He's hardly ever home before midnight."

Well, that was news to Rory. She knew he was helping out, but she hadn't had any idea just how much. Between the hours he was pulling there and the hours he was putting in at the mechanic shop, when did Dean manage to do _anything_? "Oh," she said. "I'm sorry about Mr. Forester. Dean says his therapy is coming well?"

Something dark passed over May's face--something of grief, something of fear. "He's doing the best he can," she said, her voice tight now. "It's been a tough go for all of us. Which is why Dean has had to work so hard at the store. His father can't do it, so it is his responsibility."

Rory tried to smile. "Well, I'm sorry to have bothered you," she said, meaning that most sincerely. Talking to people she didn't know was never one of her favorite things to do, and clearly May Forester still equated her with the devil. She would have to keep in mind to call Dean before stopping by to see him. There was no way she wanted to endure May's laborious stare unless she had to. Not to mention the painfully polite conversation.

"Quite alright, dear," May clearly lied, already shutting the door.

By the time it was closed, Rory was more than a little relieved.

And more than a little perplexed.

Why had Dean not told her just how _serious_ this all was? Why was Dean downplaying his father's condition? Why was he not telling just how much of the family business he was carrying?

She'd seen him as mysterious, but she'd never had a clue that his mysteriousness was the complete and total familial obligation he was carrying. No wonder he looked so tired. No wonder he looked so resigned. No wonder all her questions about what job he'd wanted, about what dreams he had, just made him clam up.

Dean needed help. He needed out. He needed to find the freedom that Rory had felt when she'd broken up with Logan, when she'd graduated, when she'd gotten her first job. Dean needed to rediscover who _he _was.

And Rory was just the girl to help him do it.

Maybe that was why she'd come back. Not just to rediscover her own direction, but to help Dean find his.

-o-

It took her nearly ten minutes to find the stereo shop.

Ten minutes.

How could she have lived here most of her life and not know where her ex-boyfriend's family stereo shop was?

Yet more evidence mounting in the case of Rory Gilmore's Oblivious Years.

When she got to the door, she could see all the lights were still on and the sign on the door was turned to the open side. Looking inside, however, she could see that the place was mostly empty. There was an older man perusing an aisle of CD players and there was Dean behind the counter, head buried in a book, a pencil moving briskly along its pages.

So _this_ was what was sucking up all his time. A dead-end of a stereo shop that Dean didn't even _want_ to run. He was throwing away his dreams and his aspirations for a dingy rented-out building filled with stereo equipment. It just seemed _wrong_ to see him there, all hunched over, working and working his life away and for what? To carry on his family's business? To make his mother happy?

She let herself in and the door dinged. The man looked up at her, scowling a little, and Dean turned his head up, his face blank.

A dozen emotions flitted across his face, almost too fast to keep up with. The gist of it was, he wasn't sure how he felt about seeing her. Which did nothing to assuage her nerves.

But Rory was on a mission. She'd let Dean ruin his life once. Okay, maybe twice. She couldn't do it again.

Maneuvering through the aisles was easy--the place was not large. There was a variety of equipment, all electronic, all completely out of Rory's domain of knowledge. She recognized clock radios and large stereo speakers and next to the cash register where Dean was stationed there was a small display batteries.

"Hey," she said, grinning.

"Hey," he said slowly, as if he didn't know why she was here.

Which, of course he didn't. It wasn't like Rory had _planned _on coming. Nor was it like she'd ever been here before, either. "I realized I'd never been here before," she explained. "It seems like my grandparents always took care of my stereo needs."

He nodded. "And I don't suppose they shop the mom and pop shops, do they?"

"Well, I'm just not sure they shop in stores with people, _period_," Rory said. "You know how they are."

Dean snorted a little. "Yeah, I remember," he said, looking back down at his books.

So, that wasn't the _best_ memory to bring up. The first interaction Dean had even had with her grandparents had ended with him being emasculated and put down. Later meetings had gone better, not that they could have gone much worse. And it was true, Dean had never really been invited back, by them or by Rory.

"Hey, look," she said, pointing to the batteries. "You sell Energizer. "I was always a little creeped out by the bunny. I mean, always going? That's just not natural. Nor is it very energy efficient. I mean, I don't care how long the battery lasts, why waste it on a drumming bunny?"

Dean didn't quite smile but he didn't quite look annoyed either. "Rory, what are you doing here?"

"Visiting," she reiterated. "I mean, I wanted to see where you worked. I wanted to talk to you."

"You've known me since we were sixteen. You never once came here."

"Well, you didn't always work here."

"I was here more than you thought," Dean said.

This wasn't going well. Not at all like she'd hoped. Time to try a different tact. "Well, I'm not sixteen anymore," she said.

He looked like he wanted to say something, something probably that she wouldn't like, because his eyes darkened and his brow bunched. Fortunately, he seemed to think better of it and the brief wave of frustration passed benignly from his features. "Well, now you've seen it," he said, and it wasn't as rude as it could have been, which Rory was grateful for, but she could feel a certain coolness in his tone.

"And it is quite impressive," she said with a nod, taking in the store once more. The walls were painted a deep beige and the carpet was a mottled collection of blues. "Your shelves are nice and dusted. That must take tons of work. And it's especially important since you have dark ones. Light ones wouldn't show as much, but those dark ones--I'm sure that's tedious work. Good thing you're the boss and can tell other people to do it, huh?"

His lips evened out in a tired smile. "I do it every other night," he said.

Rory's eyes widened. "Oh. So you build cars, you run businesses, _and_ you clean? And why are you still single, may I ask?"

It was a joke. Really. A dumb joke that was out of her mouth before she could even think about it.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, before he could respond. "That's really none of my business."

But he didn't look mad. Didn't even look _hurt_. Just looked resigned. "It's okay," he said. "And I think there are plenty of reasons that the girls of Stars Hollow steer clear of me."

"Well, they don't know what they're missing," Rory said promptly, hoping to fix some of the damage. Because the goal was to get Dean interested in her and reliving their past trespassing and heartbreaks probably wasn't the way to go. Especially since they were really more _his_ heartbreaks than hers--on every front.

The man in the store came up to the counter and deposited a packaged cable on it. Dean smiled broadly at him. "You find everything okay, sir?"

"Indeed, I did," the man said. "Heck of a time figuring out why one was priced more than the other. Same damn product and one cost five dollars more."

Dean picked up the cable, scanning it. "Well, you made the right choice," Dean said. "Don't always listen to the packages. Sometimes when it says _gold standard,_ it's just a fancy way of saying that it does its job like it's supposed to. Funny thing is, so does this one but they don't need to call it gold and you save five bucks."

The man looked genuinely pleased. "You don't say, huh?" he asked.

Dean hit a button on the register. "It's true," Dean told him. "Some people like the comfort of a gold standard. Others like the five bucks in their pocket. Which you prefer is up to you, but this is the one I'd buy. That's eight dollars and two cents."

The man produced a ten and handed to Dean, who plugged more buttons on the machine. Rory couldn't help but watch, all too aware of the fact that she was staring shamelessly.

But it was just rather remarkable. She wasn't sure why. She'd seen Dean at work before. She'd seen him at work many times. He'd practically been a staple at Doose's, and he'd always been capable and diligent, even when provoked otherwise. It was always one of the few places where Dean had never lost his temper, even when he was pushed beyond all reason.

Still, this was different. Seeing him take charge, be so informative, so friendly. Again, all things she _knew_ but seeing it in action was downright impressive. And it was more now, somehow. More capable, more experienced, more mature. Especially when she knew he didn't care at all about stereo components and he almost certainly didn't care about gold standard cables. And no one would have known it at all.

The man thanked Dean again as Dean handed him the change, and Dean's smile was all dimples as he wished the man a good evening and good luck installing his new cable. Rory didn't speak until the bell tinkled above the door and he was gone.

"Wow," she said.

Dean looked at her. "Wow?"

"That was...really good. How did you know that about the cables?"

Dean shrugged a little. "I've done my homework."

"But you don't even like that stuff, do you?"  Dean laughed a little at that. "Nope," he said. "I mean, it all relates. The engineering used to design a stereo has some correspondence to the engineering used to make a car, but the mechanics are all different. The end destination is different. So, it's not _hard_ to get up on my stuff here. It's just time consuming."

"How do you have time for _anything_?" she asked.

His smile wavered a little as he looked at her. Then he strengthened it again. "Who says I do?"

It was a light and airy comeback, but Rory could feel the hurt under it. The truth. The fact that Dean had given up his entire _life_ for this.

"Well, I think you need a break," Rory announced.

He seemed to shrink a little. "Rory--"

"I know, I know," she said, holding up a hand. "Just friends. I get it. But there's nothing that says friends can't have fun together. Especially when one friend so _clearly_ needs a break like you do. I mean, the saying all work and no play, it was practically coined for you. You are the epitome of that cliche, and that's really no good, you know, to be the epitome of a cliche because a cliche isn't supposed to _really_ define anyone. So, you totally need a break before you become reduced to cheesy one-liners."

Gathering himself, he collected and released a sigh. "Maybe," he said. "But I can't set a time just now. It's just been too busy around here. And the weekends I usually need to do stuff around the house, too. Stuff Dad usually takes care of. Not to mention going to help him with his therapy and stuff. So, things are busy right now. But I'll take a raincheck, okay?"

It took effort, and she was pretty sure she failed, but she attempted to not let her disappointment show. Dean's reasons were perfectly logical and perfectly a brush-off all at once. He _was_ busy. She just didn't understand why he didn't _want_ to make time for her.

Not that it wasn't without precedence in their relationship. She was just used to being the one doing the excusing and brushing off. During a younger time, a time when she'd been so obsessed with college applications that she'd let Dean fall by the wayside. He'd been angry then. He'd been angrier when she spent her time with Jess instead and ignored his phone calls. At the time, he'd just been annoying and difficult. Now, she could understand why.

Because there was nothing more painful then wanting to be with someone who wouldn't give up the time, for whatever reason. She suddenly wished she'd been softer to the hurt in his eyes back then, and realized that maybe this was all an expression of karma coming back to bite her in the butt.

"Okay," she said, buoying her mood purposefully. "I will have to come back soon, you know. Because you never know when the need for new stereo equipment will arise."

Dean gave her the same smile he'd given that old man. Professional. Perfunctory. "See you around."

"Yeah," Rory said. "See you."

She turned and walked away from the door. She wanted to turn around, to wave again, to see if he was even watching, but she couldn't bring herself to and the tinkle of the bell sounded the closing of the door behind her.

-o-

Checking email was always something that calmed her down. Well, relatively speaking, anyway. It was a mode of communication that helped her stay in touch with the friends she'd made near and far, and offered her a medium to go off on any tangent she wanted without wasting any breath. Her wrists didn't benefit from that deal, though, especially since she rarely believed in things like good posture at her keyboard. Typing in bed was far too tempting--after all, wasn't that a perk of owning a laptop?

Her physical status aside, emails were like little beacons of distraction. Morsels of hope that she didn't need to focus on just how weird things were in the here and now.

There was the regular messages from a few mailing lists she was on, various political and journalistic organizations. Lane had forwarded a message to help figure out her Star Wars name (Lorre Lelow, which was actually kind of nice, now that she thought about it).

And an email from Paris.

Not the city, but the girl--her friend. It'd been hard to keep in touch, with Paris' career and her own and all the places they were traveling, it was just sort of easy to let some things slide. So seeing the email in her inbox was a pleasant surprise--something she definitely needed after her night with Dean. A little pick-me-up, some _happy_ reminiscing would do her good.

And Paris was well. Better than well. She'd been offered a place at Johns Hopkins for her residency. Better, it was an oncology internship, the perfect jump start to Paris' lifelong plan.

Only she'd turned it down. She'd turned it down because Paris was getting married.

Rory had to read that again, just because she couldn't believe it.

Paris was getting married.

Paris. Planning, precise, anal-retentive Paris. The girl with no social skills. The girl who would climb over just about anybody, including possibly her own grandmother, to get where she wanted to go. Paris had turned down a coveted promotion in order to stay with Doyle, her equally arrogant husband-to-be. The Doyle she had tried to dump for her career. The Doyle she couldn't leave behind because he had followed _her_, and now, she was following him.

Moreover, she sounded wonderful. Together, calm, _happy_.

While it was possible that a lot was lost in the electronic communication in terms of nuance, Rory knew Paris. Rory knew Paris' writing. And she knew that Paris didn't have any regrets or fears. Not about this.

Rory sat at her laptop for quite some time, just staring at it, rereading the email again and again, wondering when everyone in her life had started to grow up and slow down.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: I am so far behind. I've been working on the Summer of Sam Love fic exchange and it's been busy. So I'm sorry this is late--next week I hope to be back on track. Thanks!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lorelai had discovered her inner-housewife. Lane had three kids. Paris was getting married. And Dean had resigned himself to working the family business.

All in all, this was far too much change for Rory. She'd come back home for the _stability_, not to have her life completely thrown for a loop. Why didn't the people in her life understand that?

That just left two places she could go for comfort. Her grandparents, of course, were always an option. She was fairly certain they hadn't changed since 1973, and that was being generous.

However, she still wasn't quite keen on telling them about her job situation. They'd support her, naturally, but she needed some time to build up her career as Stars Hollow's latest reporter before trying to brag it up in front of them.

So, there was only one option left. The place that would never let her down: Luke's.

In truth, it had become her refuge. Yes, she liked being home again, but it didn't feel the same. It was so _homey_ and familiar and foreign all at once. It was like she just didn't quite fit there anymore, and sleeping in the same room she'd grown up in was simply weirding her out. She wanted to get out and away, only she seemed to have forgotten that there was no place _out and away_ in Stars Hollow.

Luke's may not have met those criteria. But there was food. There was internet access. And there was Luke.

Sarcastic Luke. Distant Luke. Emotionally stunted Luke. Her mother's Luke. _Luke_ Luke.

If nothing else, he was fun to watch--sniping at customers, dealing with the daily traffic with the grace of a gorilla attempting ballet.

Yet, he was so _good_ at it. His whining and complaining and snarking aside. He was good at what he did and that, more than the greasy food, was why people came back.

All sorts of people. The old ladies, the grumpy old men, the rushed businessmen, the frenzied housewives. Even the teenagers with their first jobs.

Even Dean Forester.

_Dean_ _Forester_?

She nearly choked on her coffee when he came in, his gait easy and large, going straight up to the counter. He was quite clearly focused, so focused that he didn't even see her nestled in a table at the back of a restaurant.

Which was fine by her. She liked talking to him, but watching him was almost just as fun, though perhaps a bit more stalkerish. He was all tall and attractive and he even managed to make ordering coffee rather sexy.

She was far away, so she could only hear the deep rumble of his voice, not the words. But there was a lightness in his tone that she didn't recognize, one that she had not been graced with yet.

And then, to make things even weirder, Luke smiled at him and said something back.

This banter continued, back and forth, until Dean's food magically came from nowhere and he headed back out the door just as quick as he'd come.

Like he did it all the time.

Which, so did _not_ make sense in Rory's mind. Dean had been at Luke's many times, yes, but she knew for a fact that Dean and Luke were_ not_ on good terms. Whatever relationship they'd managed to develop during the course of her relationship with Dean had evaporated after the affair. Luke hadn't approved of Dean, moreover hadn't approved of Rory _and_ Dean, and she knew that Dean broke up with her that final time, the bitterness between them never faded. Luke didn't talk about it really, and why would he? But still, Rory knew.

Just like she knew _something_ had changed. Changed enough that Dean had a regular order, the Dean had _worked_ there, for goodness sakes.

Whether it was the Rory in her or the journalist, she wanted to know what and how and when and why. Okay, and where, but the who was already kind of answered.

Picking up her coffee cup, she drained it and headed to the counter where Luke was busy at work.

"So," she said. "What's a girl got to do to get some more coffee?"

Luke looked up at her with a glare. "Seriously. More?"

She shrugged. "I need to keep you in business somehow."

He rolled his eyes, moving to the coffee pot and filling her cup absently. "There," he said. "No go back and enjoy your buzz."

Rory took a sip of the steaming brew. "So, Dean's a regular?"  "What?" Luke asked, distracted by the order he was putting together.

"Dean Forester. You didn't even ask him what he wanted. You just knew. A coffee--black--and a toasted bagel with cream cheese."

"Low-fat," Luke corrected, digging out an extra thing of cream cheese for the bagel he was toasting. "And the bagel's wheat."

"Since when is Dean a regular?"

Luke looked up at her finally, confused. "You've been gone a long time, kiddo," he said.

"But so has Dean," Rory protested.

"Yes, but he had a little thing called summer vacation. He was home every break."

That made sense. It did. Perfectly logical. Lane had even said as much. But there was still something missing. Something fundamentally not making sense. "But Dean doesn't even _like_ you," Rory said.

At that, Luke scowled, plucking the newly toasted bagel out of the toaster.

"I mean, you weren't on good terms. The whole thing with him and me and Lindsay--"

"I remember," Luke said, a little gruff, plopping the bagel on the plate.

"So--?"

"So, you've been gone a long time, Rory," Luke said, and Rory could see he was trying to restrain himself. From what, she wasn't sure, but the effort was obvious, she knew Luke that well. "A lot can change in five years."

"I guess so," Rory said. "I just, I mean--what happened?"

He actually smiled a little at that. "You mean, you, Rory Gilmore, Ivy League grad, can't figure that out?"

"Can't figure what out?"

Lifting the plate, he made his way around the counter. "That five years is a long time," Luke said. "And that people change. There's no big mystery. They just change. Even in Stars Hollow."

Rory slumped at the stool, perplexed. She _knew _people changed. That was so _obvious_ that it barely was worth talking about. But changed _how_? Why? What was Luke_ not _telling her? When had Dean Forester suddenly become a staple at his diner and when had Luke stopped harboring such ill feelings? It wasn't that these weren't all _good_ things and _fine_ things, but they were things that Rory wasn't privy to. Things she didn't know about.

That simply did not jive with the journalist in her.

Okay, and it didn't jive with the _Rory_ in her.

When Luke made his way back around the counter, she barraged him with questions anew. "What kind of changes?"

"Excuse me?" he asked, looking up from another order.

"What kind of changes?" she asked again, more insistently this time. "I mean, like Dean suddenly became addicted to wheat bagels and Taylor refuses to carry them at the market? Or like Dean decided that breakfast at home was too boring? Or what?"

He laughed, shaking his head. "You know, you could try asking _Dean_ those questions."

She opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came out. She closed it again, frustrated. There were things here she _needed_ to know. Why was it all so difficult suddenly?

And why was she angsting so much about this? Luke was right. It was simple. And asking questions was a fundamental tenant of good journalism. And of all the people to feel _shy_ around, Dean wasn't it. She could always figure him out when she wanted to, and now was no different. She didn't need Luke and his ambiguity. She could do it herself.

"Okay," she said, her resolve bolstered. "I will."

Luke barely even looked up at her as he took out another cup of coffee.

Which was fine by her. Luke was her mother's boyfriend, sort of. And that was a headache in and of itself that she did _not_ feel like sorting out.

-o-

Two articles and a recipe under her belt, Rory was beginning to discover that Stars Hollow was strangely exactly the same and totally different. An apparent dichotomy, she supposed, but there was no other way around it. How else could she explain that everything _looked_ the same? That people moved in and out of the town like they always had? The places were the same, the faces were the same, yet whenever she tried to talk, to interact, to do _anything_, the reaction was fundamentally different. Even her _mother_ had an odd Yoda-like quality to her advice now (without the backwards way of speaking, of course) and she was _gardening_.

It was good to be home, Rory guessed. People loved her writing--they _ooh_'ed and _aah_'ed over her and Miss Patty nearly attacked her with an uncharacteristically sincere hug. Rent was cheap, rather nonexistent, which was ideal since she made virtually no money. And so it was good...but not what she expected. After nearly a week, she felt as out of place as she ever had, even though she was living and breathing in the familiarity of the simplest place she'd ever known.

Her mother was oddly busy, either with perplexing hobbies or with Luke. Lane was always attacked by small children whenever they managed to get on the phone together. And Rory didn't want to push the friend card with Dean _too_ hard else he might turn into a turtle and tuck into his shell permanently.

A week of it made her ready to succumb to the inevitable--visiting her grandparents.

It was Friday night, after all, and even her mother still consenting to Friday Night Dinners. Rory had gotten out of the first one with the claim of being exhausted from her extensive moving ordeal.

She would not get out of this one. Lorelai claimed it was part of her rent.

When Rory pointed out that she didn't pay rent, her mother said that was the point. "Indentured servitude serves the purpose," Lorelai said. "You're just lucky that I only want to coerce you into a fancy dinner with people who love you. Just think of what I could get you to do if I were really mean."

"There are surely laws against this kind of thing."

"Pretty sure you'd need to sign a lease for laws to apply."

"You mean your name being on my birth certificate isn't enough?"

"Apparently not," Lorelai said. "But hey, don't worry. They're just thrilled to know you're back. They're so focused on that that they're not going to comment on the fact that you're writing recipes for a local paper they can barely tolerate receiving"

"Gee, thanks."

Her mother smiled broadly.

"Anytime."

-o-

"I can't believe you still go to these," Rory muttered.

"I can't believe you thought you could get out of them."

"I thought it was all a deal about the money," Rory said. "You know, way back when I got into Chilton."

Her mother snorted a little with laughter, straightening her dress as she stood at the door. "Yeah, well, somewhere along the line, it became about family, didn't it? I'm pretty sure that's your fault, you and all your well-intentioned bonding and unabashed displays of affection and interest. If we'd gone with my plan and been cynical and abrasive, we could have been uninvited _years_ ago."

"You're still cynical and abrasive."

"But very charmingly so," her mother countered. "And now it's less directed at them."

"Do you ever take Luke here?"

"You're the crazy one who liked to drag your boyfriends to be subjected to their scrutiny, not me. Which is weird since you always had far more to lose. They already disliked everything I did and were infinitely disappointed in my tastes. You, you had potential."

There was truth to that, as most things that came out of her mother's mouth did. "It wasn't that bad."

"Do you remember what they did to Dean?"

How could Rory forget? They'd ridiculed him, demeaned him, and made him feel utterly inept and unworthy.

And suddenly, she remembered the look on Dean's face. That look like he somehow believed that her grandfather had been right. A look that Rory had tried to ease, but not hard enough. The same look she'd ignored years later when he broke up with her in their driveway, at the party they designed to distract her from things like Dean.

For a second, she really hoped Luke _was _right. She didn't want things to be like they had been then. She didn't want to be like she had been then, letting him be disparaged in one way or another, letting him drive away feeling like less than he was. And to think, both times, he'd done it for her.

"You sure you're up to this?" her mother asked, and Rory became aware that Lorelai was watching her.

"Yes," she said quickly. "Of course."

Her mother just shook her head. "Brave, foolish girl," she said and rang the doorbell.

-o-

Brave and foolish indeed. But these were her grandparents. At times, pretentious. Occasionally controlling. But always with her best interest at heart, for better or for worse.

And they'd missed her. They really, really had.

As if she'd been in doubt, her grandmother swooped on her the instant she was inside, fawning and as close to hugging as they really got.

"Oh, Rory, we've so been looking forward to seeing you again," her grandmother gushed. "It just hasn't been the same without your presence at our weekly dinners."

"Gee, I'm really feeling the love," Lorelai said.

Her grandmother's mood was so buoyant, that she didn't even respond to the comment. She didn't even blink.

"Thanks, Grandma," Rory said. "It's hard to believe it's been so long."

"Yes, your trips home got rather infrequent," her grandmother noted, moving them to the sitting room.

"Yes, well, all those miles and states between here and Michigan makes it rather difficult," Lorelai suggested.

At that, her grandmother did cast a glare at her, though a brief one.

"Even so, it seemed like she never got enough vacation time."

"Well, I was new," Rory said diplomatically. "I wanted to make myself as available as I could. That way, I could build up confidence with the editors and that led to a better likelihood at getting the better stories."

Her grandmother beamed. "Always looking ahead," she said. "That's my Rory. You know, your grandfather very much enjoyed your piece on the banking crisis with the Michigan State Bank. Very in-depth reporting. You even quoted the governor."

Rory felt herself blushing. True, it was one of her better pieces and one that sat proudly at the front of her portfolio. And it wasn't like she didn't relish the compliments. She just had forgotten how effusive her grandmother could be. "Well, it was a brief phone conversation," Rory said with a shrug. "Not even five minutes."

"Still," her grandmother said, moving to the drinks. "Impressive. Can I get you ladies some wine?"

"Oh, yes, please," her mother chimed in quickly. "Quickly before we drown in the Rory-praise."

Her grandmother glared again. "I would think you'd be prouder of her, Lorelai."

"Proud, yes, I'm very proud," her mother said, seating herself on the couch. "So proud that I've considered making a shrine to her in my closet. But then I wasn't sure what I'd do with my clothes. "

Drinks in hand, her grandmother swiftly handed one to Rory before offering one to her mother. "Lorelai, please. She's your _daughter_."

Rory just grinned at the verbal back and forth, taking a seat next to her mother. There was no doubting the pride--from either of them. They were equally glowing when it came to her achievements, and she'd never had much doubt to the contrary. But while her grandmother gushed praises and heralded bragging rights, her mother opted for sarcastic glorification and increased joking. The occasional extra cup of coffee without prompting was another dead giveaway.

Love came in many different forms in the Gilmore family. Rory couldn't deny that she cherished them all.

"Really, Mom? My daughter? Somewhere between pushing her out of my body and paying for her dental work for 18 years, I sort of forgot that."

Her grandmother rolled her eyes, before seating herself across from them. "And if I ever tried to forget that you were mine, your endless sarcastic diatribes would help me remember."

Lorelai leaned in close to her. "Can't you just feel the love? I'll bet you totally _missed_ this."

Rory swallowed a small sip. "There's nothing quite like it," she agreed. "And it gives me some comfort to know that no matter how much changes, the people I care about will always be here."

"Why of course we will, dear," her grandmother said. "Your grandfather should be here shortly. He was awfully excited to talk to you about everything."

"Hey, maybe we can hear again about your exciting interview with the governor!" her mother chimed in.

"Lorelai, really, you haven't been this bad in _months_," her grandmother said. "I though we were getting past this."

"Aw, I've just missed my greatest audience," she said. "No one can make me crack a comment like Rory can."

"Your daughter at least knows how to turn it off," her grandmother said sternly.

Rory could take either side of this issue, clearly, because both of them were as right as they were wrong, which was quite typically the case when it came to her mother and her grandmother. Through the banter, there was love now, that much was plainly clear, and Rory figured the back and forth was as much an expression of that as it was pure personality differences. Truth was, her mother and grandmother were likely very much the same, but obstinate in the appearance of difference. After all, her mother still didn't want to be controlled and her grandmother still wanted to control, which made them equally abrasive in their nonstop desire to in fact be in charge of the relationship. Through mutual animosity they were able to find a common ground.

That was far too much of a thought for a Friday night.

Still, it was hard _not_ to think such thoughts. It'd been too long since she'd been here, in the presence of her family, living among them, knowing them like this. So intimate.

How many Friday nights had she missed?

With another sip of her wine, the only answer that came to her was _too many_.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Alright--another chapter. We're still meandering along, but Rory's starting to think forward a bit more. Shall we see what she's coming up with? What's she's seeing to leave out? Thanks!

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The drive from Hartford to Stars Hollow was thirty minutes, but it really never seemed like it. Sometimes, a half hour could be an eternity. A relative lifetime of insufferable waiting. For things like acceptance letters to come back, for job interviews to give a call back, for that fresh pot of coffee to finish brewing.

But the drive home after Friday nights? Nine times out of ten, it flew. Because after a dinner with the grandparents, Rory's mother was always in fine form.

Tonight was no exception.

Or maybe it was an exception because her mother was exceptionally talkative.

Which was really saying something.

"And even after all this time, all these years," her mother was saying, "I don't understand why rich people like to eat things like pheasant. It's like, they think just because normal people don't eat it, that somehow it makes them richer or something."

"But we had chicken tonight," Rory said.

"Yeah, _tonight_," her mother scoffed. "But you could tell just by watching them that they wanted something else. Like pheasant. Or eel. I'd bet they'd like eel."

"Grandpa loved the chicken," Rory said. "He even said it was the best chicken he'd had in ages."

"Yeah, because all he's been eating is eel lately."

"How did we get started on this?"

"You mean we don't always just talk about pheasant?"

"I thought we were talking about eel."

"What conversation are you following?"

"None, apparently, because I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Figures," her mother said. "You're out of practice."

"No, you've just gotten more insane."

Her mother laughed, a short bark. "Like that's even possible!"

"I'm not sure living alone is very good for you," Rory observed, because there was something frighteningly disturbing about that to her. And for the first time, she really considered it. Lorelai Gilmore, alone in the house. The mornings without someone to wrangle out of bed. The afternoons with no one to rehash the oddities of the neighbors with. The nights with no one to coerce into doing her laundry.

Yes, there was Luke and Sookie and Babette and every other person in town, but they had been the Gilmore _girls_, plural, and while Rory had also been alone, there'd been no one there to think about who she _used_ to be. There'd been no point of reference.

Her mother did not have that luxury.

Her mother surely had a daily word quota, so many things she just needed to say in a day to keep herself sane. And without Rory, who did she say them to? Where did they go?

It was then that Rory realized her mother was watching her, staring as best she could while still maneuvering the car along the road. "It's so _good_ to have you back."

"But you and Grandma and Grandpa seem to get along so well these days," Rory said even if she knew that wasn't what it was about. That wasn't it, and she knew it, but sometimes she said stupid things because she didn't know quite what else to say.

Lorelai shrugged, her eyes on the road. "It's not so much about them," she said.

Rory felt sort of like a child, like she was still sixteen and didn't quite understand how mothers and daughters couldn't get along. Sure, she was a college grad, yes, she had lived in the real world. But there were still some things children needed to just ask. "Then what is it about?"

At that, her mother turned to her, smiling. "Honey, it's about you. I don't think you realize just how much we've missed you. All of us. Of course you're still my daughter wherever you are, and you'll always be my right hand girl, but the whole thing, the whole family dynamic just isn't the same without you. And that's not to say that I'm not thrilled you've been off and away and discovering yourself, but it's _really _good to have you home."

There was so much nice about that statement, so much _true_. Rory smiled back. "Yeah," she said. "Well, it's good to be home."

-o-

Since she'd told her grandparents about her numerous job musings, she figured she probably should start thinking about them more seriously. Because, no, she was not truly thinking of settling in Stars Hollow forever. She was far too experienced, just like everyone thought she was, to stay satisfied with the social news in the Gazette. This was a layover, a part time distraction, and if Rory was anything, it was driven. It was time to start thinking about her future again.

Which was why the first thing she did when she got home was power up her laptop and start looking for jobs.

Unfortunately, typing in _really good reporting jobs_ didn't exactly get her very far.

She sighed. She needed to be serious. Find _real_ jobs. Not openings at knock-offs of the National Enquirer (though, she had to admit, the position of Lead Investigative Reporter did sound intriguing, though the description included "tracking celebrities, following up on mysterious happenings, and maintaining an open mind." Good legal coverage and medical insurance encouraged.).

It was pointless anyway. She couldn't venture out into the job market without a clearer sense of what she _really_ wanted, not just what she _didn't_.

But she needed to talk about it. She could make checklists and pro/con lists, but it all lacked a fundamental element of _purpose_. When Rory had made up her mind to go to Yale, she had been fine in her pursuit of it by herself because she knew exactly what it was that was required of her. She'd made it through school on that same principle.

Right now, she needed a goal. That was all. A little goal, a lofty goal, a _goal_ goal, and then she'd be able to start applying herself in the right directions, rallying the appropriate tidbits for her resume.

But for a goal...well, that was work entirely in and of itself. And hard work. Picking a goal wasn't like picking out clothes in the morning, which admittedly, she often had problems with. Picking a goal wasn't like choosing between vanilla and chocolate, because really, she could just order _both_ and be done with it. Picking a goal was deciding her future, the next chapter in her life, and there was no _way_ she could do this without talking to _someone_.

Normally, she would turn to Paris. Maybe Lane. Maybe even her mother.

But not tonight. They were all so busy and they just didn't seem to get her anymore, not like...

She knew exactly who she _wanted_ to call. Even if she had no idea _why_, she knew she wanted to.

And why not? They were friends, weren't they? Friends talked on the phone. That was a friendly thing to do. Call each other up, say hey, what's happening and get advice? That was why Paris and Lane were her old fallbacks anyway.

So, why not?

She had her phone out and had dialed the number before she let herself think twice about it. It was oddly liberating. She didn't usually do impulsive things. She might _talk_ impulsively, but she planned obsessively. About everything. Because that was what she did to control her life, control her outcome, so to do something so _impetuous_ felt good.

Until he answered and her throat tightened. "Hi, Dean," she said, trying to sound like she wasn't some stalker.

"Rory?" his voice asked. "Is that you?"

"Yeah," she said, relieved that he recognized her at least. That was a step in the right direction. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," he said slowly. "How are you?"

"Me? Oh, I'm good. A little hyper, but that usually happens at this time of night. I think it's been three hours without coffee, so I'm probably going into withdrawal."

Impetuous? More like stupid. How could she forget the last time she was seriously impetuous with Dean? She'd ended up sleeping with him while he was still _married_. Impetuous behavior was dangerous! She wished she'd simply hung up. It would have make things easier.

"Uh, yeah," he said. There was a pause and Rory listened to him breathing. "Did you need something?"

Rory jumped a little, glad that he wasn't here to see her jittering like a junky. "Need something?" she asked. "Why would I need something?"

"Because it's nearly eleven on a Friday night and you're calling me."

"Oh!" she said. "Right! I was hoping to talk to you."

"Okay." He seemed to be waiting. "About?"

She had no idea why her mind wasn't functioning or why she had regressed fifteen years in her social skills. She laughed nervously. "I had wine at dinner," she said. "I think maybe it was a mistake."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Dean asked, and there was such genuine concern in his voice that Rory felt guilty.

"Yes, yes," she said quickly, forcing herself to calm, to even out her voice. "I swear, sometimes I'm just so weird. But I'm fine, really. I just needed someone to bounce ideas off of."

"For an article?" Dean asked. "Because I think your Mom would be better for that."

"No, not an article," Rory said, though that was a good guess. This was why she'd called Dean. This was why impetuous wasn't _always_ bad. "About my job."

"You're already unhappy?" And he didn't sound critical, but concerned, which was another thing she'd missed about Dean. He was always so attentive to her needs, always there whenever she'd needed someone to cry to.

"No," she said. "I mean, not really. It's good for now. But I'm trying think about the future."

"Ah, yes," he said, and she could practically _hear_ him smiling. "You and your planning for the future. I can't imagine you're content without something to shoot for."

"Exactly," Rory said, picking up her pencil and twiddling it. "But I'm having trouble figuring out where I want to look."

"What are you considering?"

"Well, I thought long and hard about life with a carnival. I thought it'd be really different, you know, with lots of different experiences. I could do it as research for a book. I'm sure that I'd get _great_ stories, because really, think about it. Carnival performers. The real story behind what it's like to put yourself on display. Not to mention answering the question of whether or not clowns are creepy as real people or not."

"Compelling," Dean said. "But perhaps a little hard to maintain. Unless you have a secret talent for tight rope walking."

"Really? I was thinking maybe of passing myself off as a knife thrower," she said. "They say that's all just an act anyway."

"You with knives? I'm not sure anybody in the place would _survive_ long enough to give you an interview."

"That might be problematic."

"So, what else?" Dean prompted.

"I've thought about doing something good for the world, you know," she said. "Something to help humanity out."

"Very noble," Dean said. "Wouldn't pay well, though."

"Well, I'm not sure the point would be the pay," she said. "But things like Green Peace, like international care organizations."

"I can see you doing that," he said thoughtfully. "But in research mode. I mean, you'd help people and I think you'd be a hit with little kids who don't speak your language, but you'd write about it, I think."

That was certainly an idea, and certainly one that carried weight. "Maybe not as compelling as the lives of carnival workers."

"But far more important."

"I think that'd be more likely," she said. "I'm not sure I could get hired at an international news agency."

"Why not?" Dean asked. "You have the background--Yale, Detroit Free Press."

"And the Stars Hollow Gazette."

"Naturally, the most impressive of the bunch."

"I'm sure conquering the Recipe Corner is a rare and distinguished feat."

"If they read snippets of your portfolio, I'm sure they'd at least entertain an interview," Dean told her.

That was a lovely idea. Her dream, actually. But she'd almost been afraid to give voice to it, to believe it. "Really?"

"Completely," Dean said. "But you know, you'll never know until you get your stuff together. And if I know anything about you, I know how well you prepare and organize."

Rory grimaced a little. "You did suffer through some of the worst phases."

"Hey, you were going places," Dean said. "You couldn't let me stand in your way."

He didn't sound hurt, but the way he said it, Rory could sense hurt anyway. Like he'd always come in second in their time together. Second or third or fourth or whatever. She didn't like to think about it because she didn't like to think about how it was true. "It wasn't like that."

"I didn't mean it like that," Dean said. "I just me, you're a girl who knows what she wants. And any guy who is with you just needs to be there for you and support you. No matter what. That's just the way it works when it comes to dating someone like you."

She wanted to hear some malice, some hint of malcontent in his voice, but there was nothing. Just honesty. Maybe regret. "You were always so good at that."

He laughed a little. "Yeah," he said. "Well."

And Rory heard _but not good enough_.

"Look, it's late," he said. "You feel better yet?"

"Yeah," she replied. "I think that helped. Really. Thanks."

"Anytime," he said. "No point in having big ears if they don't work as a good sounding board."

"You don't have big ears!" Rory said. "You have very nice ears."

"You clearly don't remember my ears well."

"Is that why you've taken to wearing a mop on your head?"

"A mop?" Dean asked. "You wound me!"

"I never said it was a bad looking mop. I mean, not all mops are unattractive. As far as mops go, yours is one of the best."

"And you think that's going to make me feel better?"

Rory doodled with her pencil on a scrap of paper. "Maybe a little?" she said, hopefully. "I mean, it's not like I'm going to go around calling you Mop-Boy."

Dean just groaned. "Then why do I get the sense that the next time I see you, that's _exactly _what I'll be called?"

"Hey, I wouldn't call you that," Rory said. "My mother would, though."

"You're going to tell your mother?"

"Like I have to!" Rory exclaimed, sketching an outline of a guy. She built up his muscles and colored lots of dark hair wildly over his head. "Anyone just looking at you can see it."

"I'm going to hang up now," Dean announced, and though the words were serious, the tone was easy.

"Well, thanks again," she said. "Mop-boy."

"Right," he said. "Anytime you have a dilemma, Mop-boy is here to help."

She was grinning when he finally hung up. Looking at her phone, she looked at the flashing number, the little display that said DEAN across it.

Disconnecting the call on her end, she bit her lip, still unable to control her smile as she put her phone away.

-o-

Walking down the street may have seemed like the simplest thing in the world, but this was Stars Hollow. Stars Hollow, for all of its simple ways, didn't really seem to understand _simple_. As in, a trip down the street was hardly _ever_ just a trip down the street.

There was always some mischief to be had. Some kind of bizarre commotion.

She just wasn't used to being at the center of it. Yes, she knew she was something of a golden girl around here. That had always been the case, though she had never really thought about it a ton. It had always seemed vaguely possible to her that everyone was treated this way in Stars Hollow.

Funny how Dean had taught her otherwise. Their first breakup had found him as the town scapegoat, suffering outrageous accusations and even a physical attack from a well-intentioned Luke.

Dean really had been eye-opening for her. In so many ways. First boyfriend kind of ways. First love kind of ways. First realization that she was a desirable commodity kind of ways.

She may have taken all of that for granted, just like she'd taken him for granted, but she'd never really assumed a role as a celebrity. So, when the two little girls were whispering and following her, she sort of thought maybe she had something stuck to her back. A sign maybe, something that said, "Do not feed the journalist" or "Will work for caffeine" or something equally odd and immature that her mother could think up.

It was funny to her, when she remembered, that one of the first things Dean had noticed about her was her extreme concentration. He'd loved it about her, which was really kind of funny, but also pretty flattering. Dean had known her so well even before he'd said hello to her and she'd never really realized just how astute his observations had been.

It took her probably half a block to really realize she was being followed at all and another block to get the sense that the whispers were probably about her.

It was only another half block before she broke down and turned around. "Can I help you two with something?"

The girls stopped cold, their faces freezing and eyes going wide.

"I mean, you are following and whispering about me, aren't you? I know I'm pretty oblivious but I'm not quite _that _ unaware of things when there isn't a book or a computer or at least a really good hour of CSPAN involved."

"You're Rory Gilmore, right?" the girl asked. "Lorelai Gilmore? The third one, though, not the first or the second, though no one here's met the first."

Well, she hadn't expected that. "Uh, sure," Rory said. "That's me."

The girl smacked her friend's arm. "See, I told you," she hissed knowingly. She turned earnest eyes up at Rory. "I told her it was you."

"Why would you tell her it's me?" Rory asked, still not quite putting two and two together. She did not know these girls, she did not recognize these girls, and she was really hoping that her mishap with the U-Haul was old news by now and that even if it wasn't, that it wasn't quite pathetic enough to make it around the grade school gossip scene.

"You're the voice of Stars Hollow," the girl said proudly. "My mom _loves_ your stuff. Reads it every day. So do I. I especially liked your article on the pet fair downtown."

They'd read her article. They were stalking her down the street. She had gone from golden girl to celebrity. If it hadn't been so perplexing, she may have laughed.

But it was perplexing. It didn't quite compute.

"My mother says that I could grow up to be just like you someday," the girl said. "I've been practicing my writing.

That was flattering, it really was, and it sort of felt good to hear. Good and weird and just so very misplaced. Didn't these girls realize that she didn't have a clue what she was doing? That she'd rode in on a broken down U-Haul truck after sort of getting fired in a matter of principle from her last job?

Apparently not. No reason to burst their bubble. Rory didn't really want to discuss that anyway. She'd take their hero worship over their pity any day of the week, even if both may have been utterly misplaced. "Well, I'm sure you're doing very well," Rory offered. "I was always writing growing up."

The girl beamed. "I'm going to tell my mom I talked you!" she said. "Bye!"

Then she tugged on her friend's arm and they took off together down the street, scurrying and giggling the way that little girls should and Rory wondered if she'd ever been like that. Carefree. Girly. She seemed to have missed that part of her childhood in between her incessant reading and hanging out with Lane, who only plotted to be normal in subterfuge.

She didn't mind that. She couldn't regret it. Just like she couldn't regret being home, being here. And maybe it'd always been like this. Maybe she'd always had the admiration of all of Stars Hollow; she'd just never really seen it before. Never really noticed it until it was a little girl gushing to her on the street.

This was who Rory Gilmore was. Or who she appeared to be. The girl who went to Chilton and Yale and got a job at a real newspaper and a real town and she wondered when there would be _more _than that.

That, however, was a question she could only tackle after caffeine. And sugar. And lots of both.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: I hope you all are still reading! We're approaching the halfway point here in a few chapters and thing will pick up a bit by that time--I promise :) Thanks!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Her latest assignment, should she choose to accept it, was to cover the Stars Hollow High softball team.

As she still had no other means of employment, she readily accepted. The fact that she knew nothing about softball did not matter. She had seen a softball game or two in her life and had once even held a bat, though there had not been much actual playing of _softball_ as she'd never managed to get the bat to hit the ball.

Besides, that was the point of being a journalist--of doing the research and figuring it out before presenting it to the public. All she had to do was sound marginally competent and she'd be fine. Not to mention the fact that she knew her readership--the basic facts were fine and all, but if she could add in sensationalism about someone stealing some base for a winning run or whatever they did in softball, she was pretty sure people would be head over heels.

So, all she had to do was show up, look professional, and hope that she could just keep her eyes focused on which team she was supposed to be watching.

And really, just showing up was half the effort. Her reporter's notebook was quite a hit, and she had over-zealous parents sidling up to her all night, pointing out which girl was theirs and talking the strengths of the team (which undoubtedly was almost _always_ each's own daughter).

Which worked to her advantage, really. She learned the players' names and she was able to follow a bit of what was going on. And it hadn't even required any research.

Stars Hollow High won, much to everyone's delight, and all she had left to do was interview a team member or two, talk to the coach about the glorious victory, and get home and write her piece.

She was nearly done, finding all the girls enthusiastic to help, and was about to leave, when she realized one of the girls was staring at her.

They'd all _looked_ at her, somewhat eagerly, but this one just seemed to be figuring something out. What, Rory wasn't sure, and since she had everything she needed, she wasn't sure she wanted to waste the time.

But, apparently the girl had other plans.

Rory supposed that was a side effect of being one of the closest things this town had to being a _celebrity_.

"Rory?" the girl asked, sounding like she couldn't believe it. "Rory Gilmore?"

Rory just cocked her head. It was not an uncommon experience to be known by people she did not readily recognize, though she had to admit, usually they were older than this girl.

The girl then proceeded to remove her baseball cap, pushing her long strands of blonde hair away from her sweat-soaked forehead. "I've been wondering when I'd see you! Dean's talked so much about you."

That was all Rory needed. The blonde hair was longer, her slim body was taller and more defined, but the smile and exuberant eyes were all Clara. "I hardly recognized you!" Rory said. "You've grown!"

She smiled. "You've been gone a long time," Clara said, repositioning her hat on her head. "And I do believe last time you knew me I was still in that awkward pre-teen stage."

"Awkward for all of us," Rory said.

"I can't imagine it was awkward for you," Clara gushed. "You always seemed to know exactly what you were doing. Well, most of the time. But that was why you were so good with Dean in the first place."

Rory's heart twinged a little. It was hard to think about, the promise that she and Dean had had. She'd not believed it then, really. She'd taken it for granted. "So, how are you?"

Clara's face fell a little. "It's been hard lately," she said. "With Dad and all. And I swear, my mom is about ready to freak. She's always been anal, but now it's just ridiculous."

"And Dean?" Rory asked, hoping she sounded nonchalant.

The smile on Clara's face told Rory that she clearly wasn't succeeding on that front. "He's Dean," she said. "Actually, it's pretty sad. He worked so hard, you know? All the years at college and he didn't have any help at all. He had an offer from two major automotive companies. And he turned them both down when Dad got sick."

"Two job offers?" Rory was surprised. Dean had mentioned options, a career, but he'd never said specifically.

"Yeah," Clara said. "GM and Nissan, I think. He was awfully excited about them, not that he let most people see it. He always has had this way of downplaying things. I think he doesn't want people to get excited for him. It's like he doesn't want to be complimented. It's so weird."

"Yeah, weird," Rory said. "How's he doing now?"

Clara chewed her lower lip. "He's so busy," she said. "He can't even make it to my games anymore, but that's my mom's fault. She practically obsesses that he stay at the store _all_ the time. By the time he gets home, he's so exhausted that he pretty much just goes to sleep. He wakes up at five just so he can work out, but it's like he never even eats or relaxes. If I ever had a chance to talk to him, I'd just make sure that he was still sane."

"It's that bad?" Rory asked. "I mean, I knew he was busy, but--"

"But nothing!" Clara said. "It's just too bad. I mean, I heard that you'd asked him out and I'm amazed he actually said yes."

"Oh, well, we're just friends--" Rory tried to explain.

Clara grinned. "Right. Just friends. Dean's always wanted to be more than just friends with you. You should hear the way he talks about you." 

Well that was news. Good news. News she wanted more of. "He talks about me?"

The girl's eyes sparkled. "Not a lot, but he doesn't talk about a lot of things," she said. Then she leaned closer, her eyebrows knitting. "But I think he's afraid to."

Rory leaned in to her as well. "Afraid to?"

Clara nodded seriously. "He's worked so hard to get to where he is," she said. "He'd kill me if he knew I told you, but he was so messed up for awhile. After the whole thing with Lindsay, it was almost like having a stranger for a brother. He was depressed, though he wouldn't say so and I was too young to make a difference. I don't know why my parents didn't seem to care."

"How did you know he was depressed?"

Clara just looked at her. "Seriously? At first he was angry and bitter. Nothing made him happy. And then...he just shut off. Like there was a switch. He just lost _all_ his confidence and just, like, accepted it. My mom would tear into him and he took it. He said he probably deserved most of it. Even when he went back to school, starting doing stuff with his life again, it didn't change how little he stood up for himself. Which is why I was so hoping he'd take a job far away from here. Stars Hollow is bad for him, not that my mother recognizes it."

"Bad for him? It's bad for him?" 

"The memories," Clara explained. "He's surrounded by them. His mistakes and all that. And then his whole habit of ending up in the hospital each summer hardly helps." 

"Yes, well, ambulance rides can be quite demeaning," Rory said. "Not that I know from experience, but I can just imagine."

"Well, yeah," Clara said. "Which is why I think it's so cool you're here."

That was a train of thought she didn't quite get, even in her Gilmore-like way of thinking

"I mean, you can help Dean," she said. "Since he's making time for you, and all."

"Oh, well, we're just friends," Rory tried to explain again. Not that she didn't want more, but she couldn't handle getting Clara's hopes up as well. Her own disappointments were hard enough to swallow.

"But you two are perfect for each other," Clara said. "Now more than ever. He's grown up _so _much. And he needs something _good_ in his life."

"Well--"

"Don't you _want_ to try again?" Clara said. "I mean, I thought you did. I can, like, see it in your eyes."

Rory's mouth opened, a little stunned. To lie or to tell the truth, she couldn't decide which was better, which was easier. But Clara was looking at her and suddenly Rory could not lie. Not about this. "Well, I mean, I'd like to _try_--"

"And that's all it would take!"

"But he doesn't _want_ to," Rory tried to explain. "He's made it clear that just friends--"

Clara rolled her eyes. "He's just scared," she said. "Can't you see that? I mean, come on, surely you get that. You broke his heart time and time again. Breaking up with you is probably what got him into the mess to begin with. He was so desperate to feel happy again, he married that blonde bimbo. Then he was so desperate to be happy after her that he went back to you when he wasn't ready."

Well, that was blunt. Rory's mouth snapped shut and her jaw tightened. "Then why do you want me with him to begin with?"

Clara sighed, her teenage ways melting away. "Because you're good for him. My parents never told him things like he could go to college, that he could do better things then they did. And you're the only thing that really made him truly happy. He's worked his butt off to get his life back and he's doing so _well_ but he's still missing something. He's missing you. And that right there is enough to make me want you back in his life, even if sometimes it's hard to forgive you for letting him walk away when his self-esteem was so awful. You screwed with him and it nearly cost him everything, but despite all that, I know he still loves you--or wants to, anyway."

And this kid was eighteen? She'd just psychoanalyzed Dean and Rory's relationship with Dean as though she'd spent years as a therapist. It was rather disconcerting. And painful. To think about what it'd done to Dean, thinking about how Rory had let him walk away when he was so clearly _not_ okay.

She'd never really thought about it before. She had, a little, enough to know that she'd hurt him. Enough to know that he was right to be angry, right to want out of her life, right for all of that. But that didn't change the fact that she'd always felt she was _more_ right. That she needed to go with Jess. That, later she needed Dean more than Lindsay did. That she was somehow right and he was somehow hers and she'd never stopped to really think about the fact that his tailspin could all be traced to the fact that he'd loved her too much.

Which made perfect sense. Why he came back so easily. Why, the minute she showed interest in him again, he was willing to risk everything, even his marriage. Because Dean was strong and manly and noble, but his Achilles heel would always be her.

Maybe that was why he was resisting her so much. Because he didn't want to screw up again. He didn't want to get hurt.

"He still loves me?" Rory asked.

Clara just smiled a little. "Yeah," she said. "I can't say I haven't thought that you don't deserve him. But I want what's best for him, and I guess I've always sort of believed that was you. You make him smile and it seems like nothing else does."

"But he wants to be just friends."

She shook her head. "He's a guy, Rory," Clara said. "Guys are idiots. And Dean's the biggest idiot of them all. It's like he thinks he deserves to be unhappy. He just needs someone to go after him for once. I mean, can you blame him for being a little gun-shy?"

Given the history, given the whole Lindsay mess, she really couldn't say she didn't. "So what do I do?"

"Be his friend," Clara said. "I mean, remember how he was? How he was always there for you, no matter what? How he did things you liked to do? How he was willing to play whatever role you needed him to play?"

Yes, yes, and certainly yes. That had been Dean's strength, all along. From him kissing her at Doose's, to letting her set the pace for the boyfriend/girlfriend thing, Dean was good at being what she needed. Maybe that was why Jess and Logan had never worked out. Jess and Logan wanted more for them, and sometimes demanded it from her. And that was hard to give. She'd never considered just how hard that was for Dean.

"So, you do it for him for awhile," Clara said. "And he'll come around."

"You think?"

Clara raised her eyebrows. "I'm his little sister," she said. "I know. Just don't tell him I said so."

One of Clara's teammates called her name.

"Oh, I've got to go," Clara said. "Think about it, though, okay?"

"Okay," Rory said.

When Clara smiled again, it was uncanny how much of Dean she saw in her. "Good seeing you," Clara said. "Bye."

"Bye," Rory replied, watching her bob and weave through the departing crowd to rejoin her teammates.

Rory just stood there, reporter's notebook in hand, wondering how Clara could be right. How Clara could still think she and Dean were so good for each other. How Clara could be so sure she was what Dean needed.

Dean wanted to be just friends, but the tension was still there.

He wanted to be just friends, because Rory had hurt him before. Because Rory had been selfish before. Because Rory had let him walk away and think he wasn't worthy of her. Because he'd always been _hers_ and clearly she wasn't the only one who maybe felt that way.

Too bad that only worked well to her benefit. For Dean, not so much.

It would be different this time. It would have to be. Or Clara would never forgive her.

Rory would never forgive herself.

But that still didn't change the fact that she needed to prove it to Dean.

All she knew was that it was worth figuring out.

-o-

At home, her mother was leaving. Which actually surprised her. With the gardening and the cross stitching, Rory had almost begun to think of her mother as a homebody. But the nicely fitted shirt and capris and the tastefully done evening makeup suggested that Lorelai had not settled into middle-age-hood quite like Rory had suspected.

"You look nice," Rory observed as her mother scurried about the kitchen, putting away some dishes.

"Thanks," her mother replied. "It's nice to know that I'm still capable of pulling it off."

"You going out?" Rory asked, sliding into a chair at the table.

"No, I just thought I'd get all dressed up for the fun of it," her mother said.

"Luke?"

"Is there anyone else?" Lorelai said, looking over her shoulder at her. "Yes, Luke. We do need to spend _some_ time together. You know, if we didn't, it wouldn't be much of a relationship."

"I haven't been quite sure what kind of relationship it is anyway," Rory said. "I mean, you call off a wedding but you've worn his necklace every day since. A little weird, don't you think?"

Her mother gave her an impassive gaze. "Weird? Hardly. Very appropriate, most likely."

"So, what are you?" 

"You think we need the cute little term boyfriend and girlfriend?" her mother asked, sitting down at the table with her. "Hardly. I mean, he could give me his ring and I could wear it around my neck if you wanted to."

"That's very 70s."

"Of course--I always wanted to be Olivia Newton-John."

"I'm not sure John Travolta would be a good boyfriend."

Her mother shrugged. "Lots of men aren't and yet we date them anyway. It's a little masochistic, I suppose, but it keeps life interesting. Especially when one's only daughter has flown the coop."

"So, you're with Luke so you're not alone?"

Lorelai lowered her eyebrows. "That's rather low, don't you think? I mean, come on, I'm more respectable than that. Not by much, perhaps, but I certainly don't expect that kind of accusation from my _daughter_ no less. I mean, if it were just for the sex, sure, but Luke and I--"

Rory winced. "I don't want to know."

"You asked. Moreover, you insinuated an insult."

"Insinuated an insult?"

"So to speak. You still asked."

"I was hoping for generalities. Like, _oh, yes, Rory, Luke and I are good friends_ or maybe _we're contemplating a domestic partnership_."

"A domestic partnership?"

Rory shrugged. "Maybe a common law marriage if you two ever work up the courage to move in together."

"What sort of life have you been living in Michigan?"

"Well, what kind of life have you been living in Stars Hollow?"

Her mother smiled. "It really bothers you, doesn't it?" she asked.

"What?"

"That life went on here and you don't know everything." 

"It's not like that. You're my _mother_."

"Oh, come on," Lorelai cajoled. "All of it bothers you. The fact that you don't know how to talk to Lane anymore, the fact that Luke and I have a relationship that you don't understand, the fact that Dean is different--"

"Hey, how _is_ Dean different?" Rory said, pouncing on the mention. "I mean, what do you know about him? Because you are awfully sneaky with your subtle comments about him and I'm getting the sense that everyone here knows something about him that I don't."

Her mother leaned back in her seat with a mischievous grin. "That's what you get for moving away."

"Are you really going to torture me like this?" Rory said. "Your only beloved daughter?"

"Who freeloads off of me."

Rory threw her hands up. "I give up!" 

"Aw, don't be like that," Lorelai said. "You really want to know stuff?" 

"Please," Rory said in exasperation. "I'm trying desperately to make sense of the world around me and all I get are evasive answers."

"That really kills you," her mother said with an amused shake of her head. "If I had only known how easy this was--"

Rory began to push away from the table. "I'm leaving--"

"Oh, sit down," her mother said. "Luke and I are Luke and I. We enjoy each other's company. It's friendship and it's more but it's not quite _domestic partnership_. It's not out of the realm of possibility, but I'm pretty sure I still need to finish growing up first before I'm ready to make that plunge, especially with someone as emotionally repressed as one Luke Danes. We still have to find our happy medium before we subject each other to cohabitation."

"That's very mature of you."

"You sound surprised."

"Well."

"Yeah, yeah," her mother said, standing again. "You may have mastered the art of cohabitation once yourself, but that was how long ago?"

"I've been advancing my career."

"That's what all lonely women say."

"At least I can easily define where I'm at in life."

"So, you can tell me what's up with you and Dean?"

Rory glared. "I'm not going to miss you tonight."

Lorelai laughed, walking out of the kitchen. "Don't wait up."

"Don't worry!"

And the front door closed.


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: I'm glad so many of you enjoyed Clara. She always seemed more appreciative of Dean than most. This chapter focuses on some OCs toward the end, which I'm afraid may be slightly off putting, but I felt like I had to build up Rory's work life a bit, and her coworkers sort of needed to be established a bit. At least Rory has a plan now. We'll just see how long it takes until a wrench is thrown into them :) Thanks!

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Seven o'clock and nothing to do. The TV was bad, all reruns and reality shows, and her mother, in all her newfound weirdness, was out with Luke. Doing whatever it was that they did. And that was something Rory really didn't want to know.

She _should _have been working on her resume. Looking for jobs, writing cover letters, that kind of thing. She had a list a mile long of things to do for job applications, which really should have been more than enough to occupy her for weeks to come. So, the house to herself? Was really ideal.

Too bad she couldn't focus. At all. Because every time she looked at her list, she heard Dean telling her about how her portfolio alone would get her an interview. And then she could see him smiling with his dimples and his stupid mop-head that she just wanted to touch.

Which, of course, she couldn't because they were _just friends_.

And Clara, dusty and dirty, telling her that she was good for Dean, that Dean missed her, that Dean needed her.

Job applications could wait, couldn't they? She wasn't so sure Dean could.

The good news was that now she at least knew how to find him. When all else failed, he would be at the stereo shop.

She was up and fixing her hair before she could think twice. Giving herself a once over, she sighed, hoping she looked good enough, before picking up her keys and heading out the door.

-o-

Walking there the second time was easier than the first. In fact, it was almost like she'd walked there every day of her life--it felt that right. And Rory couldn't help but wonder why she hadn't made the effort before.

The evening was beginning to come on a bit, dimming the sky just slightly, but the daylight still clung to the sky and the weather was warm. When she found the building, she lingered at the window, looking in to what she was sure could become a very familiar sight.

Dean behind the counter, bent over an open notebook, pencil in hand and his other hand rubbing at his forehead.

He looked stressed, there was no doubt about it, and she saw him grimace a little as he started writing.

It was sad to see, because he looked so weary, but it was also so cute--the way his hair fell over his eyes, the unconscious way he nibbled his lip in concentration.

She was gawking. Gawking would get her nowhere. Dean would not want a friend who gawked. And people were going to start gawking at her for her shameless gawking.

So, she went in. The little bell chimed and she was already smiling when Dean looked up.

"Rory," he said. He sounded surprised and, really, he looked surprised, too. Eyes wide and eyebrows up--all very adorable and all so very, very surprised. "What are you doing here?"

Which he had good reason for. This was only her second trip there. But Clara was right. If she wanted to see Dean, she needed to do it on his terms.

"I was thinking about buying a new CD player," she said, meandering through an aisle. "My old one, is, well, old."

"Ah," Dean said, moving from behind the counter. "Well, then getting a new one might be good."

"Yeah," she said. "Though I was also just thinking about foregoing the whole CD thing and upgrading my MP3 player. It's kind of old, too, and I have a hard time getting to different menus but I've always kind of liked CDs. They're so...concrete. But who really buys CDs anymore?"

Dean nodded. "The MP3 is very popular these days. We do have a variety of the latest models, though ripping all your songs from CD to upload is rather time consuming. And trying to transfer your music from your old MP3 could be difficult."

Rory frowned a little indifferently. "Well, hey, I've got nothing but time," she said, leaning against the counter. "You know with nothing to do except to write articles, which, really isn't _that_ time consuming and I spend half my day at Luke's anyway, which means I eat well, but at this point I'll be spending more on my food bill than I make."

"Then should you really be buying an MP3 player?" he asked with narrowed eyes.

Considering that, Rory smiled. "But the point of the MP3 player is that I will have music to keep me entertained so there's more music and less eating. Because, if you're really enjoying music, then you can't do much else like waste your money on food."

"But then how do you write?"

"Ah, you are attempting to use logic," she said with a flirtatious smile. She wasn't a flirt by nature, in fact sometimes it didn't come naturally at all to use her female prowess, but for Dean she could make an exception--she _had_ to make an exception. "Surely, you realize that the powers of reason have little effect on the opposite sex."

"No, that's just the case with Gilmores," he said, his dimples finally flashing.

And that was success. She had her in now. He was looser, which was _exactly_ what she needed. For a moment, she wondered why she didn't employ her womanly influence on a more consistent basis--it seemed to work better than she had anticipated. "Well, you say that like it's a bad thing."

Ducking his head, he laughed. "You're a bad influence on me," he said. "I'm supposed to be working."

Rory glanced around the store then at the papers on the counter. "You _are_ working," she said. "All you do is work. I think you're entitled a break."

"Yeah, well," Dean said. "Not all of us have the luxury of spending more money than we make and whittling away our time contemplating the virtue of MP3 players."

"Whittling, huh," she said.

He shrugged. "All your time away."

She grinned. "You know what they say--all work and no whittling--"

"And who says that?"

"You doubt a Gilmore?"

"Ah," he said. "I forgot."

"A crime."

"Definitely."

"I suppose you think I should go," she said.

He paused, looking at her with amusement and hesitation. "Unless you're serious about that MP3 player."

"It'll require extensive research," she said. "I'll have to make multiple trips back here to make my decision."

"Of course," he said.

"And I'll need advice," she continued. "From a knowledgeable store employee."

"Well, then it's a good thing I'm here," he said, his eyes lingering on hers.

She nodded. "Very good indeed."

Dean was staring at her, just _staring_, almost longingly, and she could feel the draw, she could feel the connection again. Just like the other night. Just like when they were younger.

But she couldn't follow through. Not yet. It would spook him. Dean was in _just friends_ denial and she couldn't risk tipping her hand just yet. Her womanly virtues could tantalize him enough to make him jump first--that was what she had to hold for.

Not that she didn't want to grab his shirt and pull him over that counter and right into her arms.

Which was really quite an image--manhandling a guy like Dean, muscles and all, to do her bidding--

Too much. Too much. She was staring, probably pretty close to drooling, definitely back to that whole gawking thing and the simple fact that Dean still didn't want a gawking friend and she had to _stop_.

"Well," she said, straightening herself. "I really appreciate the advice."

"Yeah," he said slowly, almost uncertainly, perhaps unnerved by her near gawking fiasco. "No problem."

"See you around," she said, hoping to sound nonchalant and confident, two things that she had never been. But she wasn't the same girl she was before. She didn't want Dean to think she was the same immature Rory, the same misguided Rory who wanted bad boys and true bloods.

He rewarded her with a pair of dimples. "Yeah," he said. "See you."

With one more smile, Rory let her eyes linger for a second longer before turning and making her way to the exit. This time, she didn't need to turn around to know that he was watching her.

-o-

The plan was in motion.

Yes, there was a plan. A quickly thrown together, haphazard one, but a plan nonetheless. A plan to win Dean back. A plan to _woo_.

Woo was such a great word. So a plan to woo had to simply be a great idea.

At least, that was what she told herself. She might have believed it if she had any idea what she was doing.

But how hard could it be? Men had been practicing the art of wooing since the dawn of time. Young, dapper cavemen had probably picked the bugs from their hair and gathered the latest kill of rabbit to go ask out the cavewoman down the street. Granted, it would likely be harder with grunting as the main means of communication, but on the other hand, the courtships were probably far shorter. If the meat was good, the guy probably had an in, and that was that.

And so if a caveman could do it...

Why was she quoting Geico commercials? And where was that stupid gecko when she wanted him?

Besides, she wasn't looking to buy car insurance, nor was she actually a caveman, or a cavewoman as it were. She needed a more modern means of wooing. And more subtle. Because she was pretty sure that offering Dean a dead rabbit wouldn't get him to throw his inhibitions into the wind, bug-less hair or not.

No, her wooing had to look like friendship. Watching movies together. Running an errand together. Going out for ice cream. All Dutch, now, of course. She needed to tell him bad jokes, moan about her job. _Friend_ stuff.

Dean seemed to have forgotten. Being _friends_ was really a lot like dating--only without the kissing. But if she could establish the _friendship_, she was pretty sure her lips and Dean's would meet sooner or later, even if she had to rig up the mistletoe herself to make it happen (what, her mother had done weirder things than celebrate Christmas in July--in fact, in the grander scheme of things that would really seem quite normal).

So, it wasn't a concrete plan. Not like most of her plans, which included steps one through twenty-two, each with sub-steps to accomplish each step naturally. She could start making a list of activities to entice him with or perhaps topics of conversations that would be deemed safe by Dean's suddenly friend-oriented mentality but still deep enough to whet both of their curiosities, when it came to the idea of being more than friends, even if Dean didn't know it. But she needed to retain that element of spontaneity--not her strength by any means, but essential in appearing totally nonchalant. Totally innocent. Totally friendly.

Which was the perfect plan, in and of itself. To woo in stealth. Wooing in subterfuge. She should write a book.

Well, only if it worked. She needed to implement it before she could deem herself an expert.

Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow would be a _perfect_ day to begin Operation Woo Dean. Or Operation Dean Woo.

Yes, she needed to work on the title. She felt confident, though, that it would work.

-o-

It was a rare thing to find _people_ in the Gazette's office. Yes, there was usually a _person_. Ned tended to be around quite frequently and when Ned wasn't around the design editor, Meredith, usually was.

While there was ample work space in the main room, complete with an array of mismatched desks, they seemed to go mostly unused--not that one could tell, given the amount of paper on them. The desks were, she was told, for the reporters to work. And perhaps once upon a time, they'd always been full, though Rory couldn't imagine when. The Gazette's eclectic group of reporters were mostly moonlighters. As in, reporting wasn't _really_ what they did. It was a side job. A way to earn some extra cash.

And what a group they were. From what Rory could tell, there seemed to be about three regular writers, besides Ned of course, who still penned whatever leftover copy was needed to fill the pages. Rory had met each of them at least once, but only in passing. To see all of them perched at desks that morning was more than a bit of a surprise.

They looked a bit surprised to see her as well.

She figured that was to be expected. She was the new kid on the block. She was also the hotshot newbie, already Ned's star reporter--and she didn't think that because of pride but because among the group of them, she was the only one who probably had anything resembling a journalism degree.

Conrad Dewey most certainly didn't. The middle-aged man was small and bald and somewhat twitchy. Her mother had once referred to him as the squirrel on caffeine and Rory had barely restrained the urge to buy him cans of mixed nuts ever since. His real job was...well, that was pretty hard to say because it seemed to change on a monthly basis. Dewey wasn't exactly the most respectable citizen of Stars Hollow, and if the truth was told, as Rory often liked to think it should be, Dewey spent a great deal of his time in the surrounding communities, mainly checking out whatever so-called action he could find. Gambling was his vice and everyone knew it, and Rory sort of thought that his fast-talking ways in casinos and race tracks were probably part of the reason he could write so well. Creativity was creativity was creativity, and Dewey knew how to exert it to weasel his way into money and his way out of trouble. The one thing Dewey did have to his name was an apartment complex on the south side of town. It was one of the few _not_ owned by Taylor, and therefore one of the few that was cheap, reasonable, and rather under-kept.

Chuck Lyman was probably the most likable of the writers. He was a tax accountant by trade, so he only dabbled in journalism from May until December, before tax season really hit in. Rory got the impression that he didn't really need the money that Ned could pay him. He rather liked to find reasons to be away from home, where his wife was raising their four children. All of whom were under the age of five. Rory guessed there were some twins in there somewhere, but she hadn't figured out where yet.

The most prestigious of the bunch was Nancy Benton. Her real age was a mystery, and she tried to keep it from further speculation by maintaining a pristine image, complete with what Rory could only speculate was from teeth whitening, weekly trips to the hair salon and stops in the tanning bed. Yes, Nancy was immaculate, desperately trying to convey the fact that she was a worldly woman, well on the up-and-up. In fact, it was well known that for a stint in the late 80s Nancy had served as a news anchor at a station out of New Hartford. People somehow neglected to think about why she hadn't lasted long--Rory figured it was because she wasn't very good.

Nonetheless, that mediocre journalistic experience made Rory, without a doubt, the writer with the most history to back her up as a legitimate writer, which was why she got the lead stories nine times out of ten.

All of this was good history, but it certainly didn't explain why all three of them were poised at desks.

"Did I miss a memo or something?" Rory quipped, putting down her purse and taking a seat at a vacant desk.

Lyman was doodling in the margins of his notebook. "We haven't had memos since we had a secretary," he said.

"We had a secretary?" Dewey asked, his forehead wrinkling with real thought.

"You remember Regina," Lyman said.

Remembrance lit upon Dewey's face. "Ah, yes, Regina," he said. "She always smelled like lilacs. She was the secretary?"

Lyman just looked at him. "I think you were still on the bottle that year."

Nancy looked bored with the entire exchange. "We always have weekly editorial board meetings," she explained. "There's never a need to _plan_ them. We've just always had them on Tuesday mornings."

That was all it took for Rory to feel like the kid who'd been left out of a neighborhood softball game by failure to communicate alone. Maybe not purposeful cruelty, but equally painful by neglect.

Only this time, it was a staff editorial meeting.

She may have been the star reporter, the so-called voice of Stars Hollow, which gave her tons of publicity, but she was being left out of the meat and potatoes, the only real substance this small town paper had--the editorial page.

She felt color rise in her cheeks and wasn't sure if she was hurt or angry. After all, of the bunch, she was pretty sure she was the only one who had sat on a _real _editorial board.

Lyman looked apologetic. "Sorry, kid," he said. "Honest to God, never even thought about it."

Which was very believable. The Gazette wasn't exactly big on things like organization and communication. Or professionalism. Sometimes, she wondered how Ned got out the day's news on time at all, instead of two days later. Lyman was too nonchalant to remember, Conrad was too weird to be bothered and Nancy--well, Nancy as too self-invested to give a crap about someone like Rory Gilmore.

Luckily, Rory had good timing today. And once she made a note of it in her calendar, she'd never miss another one.

Though eyeing the oddly assembled bunch, she wondered just what she'd been missing out on, after all.

Her questions would soon be answered; their fearless leader pushed his way through the door, balancing a cup of coffee and a box of donuts.

Ned deposited the donuts on Conrad's desk, flipping the box open to retrieve one with chocolate sprinkles for himself. Mouth full of crumbs, he sucked a gulp of coffee before plopping in a chair. "So," he said, "what do we got for this week?"

"I think we should write protesting the tax increases on tobacco products," Conrad said immediately. "They're trying to fleece the working class, taking what few pleasures we have and exploiting us to squeeze out every last cent we own."

To Ned's credit, he nodded seriously. Lyman nearly choked with laughter, quickly stuffing a donut in his face to cover.

"And that'd be _so _popular," Nancy said. "As if this paper isn't _enough_ of a joke, we come across supporting some of the most disgusting vices in the world."

Conrad bristled. "You don't see them raising the taxes on ice cream, which, as we all know, is nothing but manufactured sugar with additives to make you crave more and lead to the rise of obesity we've seen in recent years."

"Why don't you do some research and write something up and I'll look it over later," Ned suggested. "But we need something for _this_ week."

"We could always write against Taylor's complete control of town," Lyman said. "Seems like he's a little power hungry, if I do say so myself."

If it hadn't been Stars Hollow, that idea actually might have been interesting. Corrupt political leaders always sort of made Rory tingle with excitement. And she had to admit, watching Taylor tremble with anger always was a fun sight.

"Genius," Nancy said. "He also is in charge of selling most of our poor paper."

"And what is _your_ idea, oh all-knowing one?" Lyman asked.

"The tennis lights," she said with a shrug. "With the weather as nice as it is, people are using the courts well into the night. The school season is over, so we won't look like we're talking against organized youth sports, just the casual players who are inflicting the consequences of their fun on the surrounding neighborhoods."

Ned was nodding. "The timing is good," he said. Then he looked and seemed to see Rory for the first time. "You said you've written editorials, haven't you, Rory?"

Rory straightened, her ambition flickering to life immediately. "For multiple publications, yes," she said. Normally she wouldn't like to brag, but normally she wasn't left out of staff meetings, so she might as well make it count. "Well, I mean, if you count the school papers, which really are rather noteworthy, if I do say so myself. There was a _ton_ of competition, and people actually really wanted to write the editorials on those staffs. Kids, you know, and all their ideals that they want to persuade the masses of. But also at the Detroit Free Press."

"And I'll bet they cared about things beyond tennis court lights in a place like Detroit," Lyman said.

"I'd say she's qualified," Ned agreed.

"Wait, you want _her_ to do it?" Nancy asked. "She's, what, eighteen?"

Nancy was being downright _rude_, especially since Rory was sitting right there, but Rory wasn't the type to roll over and take it. Maybe she would have when she _was_ eighteen, but she wasn't even sure about that. Because when it came to things like her schooling and career, she could be pretty downright scary. Not Paris-scary, not quite anyway, but thoroughly determined in a way that made people take notice. That had been the hard lesson that Mitchum Huntzberger had taught her, and she hadn't forgotten it--not by a long shot.

There was a reason she'd gotten into Yale and a job at one of the most well-read papers in the country. She may cry about the entire altercation later, she wasn't really sure yet (but she might have needed to buy some ice cream at Doose's on the way home just to be sure), but for now, she could play the game. She didn't need years on the job to know how to play politics in the workplace. If Nancy thought Rory didn't know how to play hardball, then clearly she'd never been in the newsroom with Paris.

Rory smiled. "No, when I was eighteen I was enrolled at Yale. Which is consequently where I earned my undergraduate degree in journalism. Quite a competitive program, if you don't already know. And I graduated near the top of my class, which is how I got a coveted position on the campaign trail. I'm not sure if you know the rankings for the national newspapers, but in the top ten is actually the Detroit Free Press. Not many rookies get the chance to get their feet wet at such an organization, but I believe in my portfolio I have at least three examples of editorial work that I completed while on staff there. So, I've come a long way since I've been eighteen. What about you?"

Her list of accomplishments was nothing to scoff at, especially in Stars Hollow. Even for Nancy Benton. The woman knew it, too, but she was as proud as Rory was. Just as stubborn. She pursed her lips and steeled her jaw. "Sweetheart, I don't need to tell you my resume to testify to my experience."

"Ah, well, experience is what it is," Ned interjected cautiously.

Rory looked at him.

He smiled awkwardly. "Since the editorial is actually kind of a weekly event, it's not like we can vary it up."

"But the tennis court lights is _my_ issue," Nancy said, and Rory wondered if that was a hint of whining in her voice.

"And you get to write it," Ned capitulated patiently. "Which is why Rory can be brainstorming for next week."

"Ah, man. Ned, you mean Conrad and I don't get to play with the big girls, too?" Lyman asked.

Ned glared at him. "Lyman, the last time I let you write an editorial, we got boycotted by the Girl Scouts. Do you know many Girl Scouts are in this town?"

Rory cringed. "How did you offend Girl Scouts?"

Lyman rolled his eyes. "I told the truth and everyone knew it. Those cookies are _way_ overpriced."

"It's an organization to give young girls purpose, Lyman. You buy the cookies to _help_ them."

Lyman just grinned. "You didn't have to _print _it."

"Right, and I was going to fill the space with what? Oh, I know. I could have called the editorial fairy and have her drop off an editorial an hour before we go to press. That makes _perfect_ sense. No, I stick with my assets. You stick to your sports and small time local coverage and I won't have to stock up on Girl Scout cookies to bring my readership back up."

The self-righteous anger from earlier was quickly abating. It was hard to stay angry, after all, in light of the levity. The fact that she'd gotten what she wanted helped, too. Rory glanced over at Nancy. While the older woman certainly hadn't warmed up to anything resembling a smile, her shoulders had lost their edge and she had taken a file from her purse and started attacking her nails with a moderately pleasant indifference.

And suddenly, Rory realized that maybe Ned wasn't a well-intentioned-but-oafish leader after all. He had just defused Nancy's little outburst and neatly given Rory an opening at the opinion page. Rory was both impressed and grateful. Small town or not, apparently the competition in a newsroom was universal. Nancy had just been lucky that for years, all she'd had to contend with was a down and out gambler with a penchant for adverbs and a to-the-point family man just looking for an extra buck.

She had never had competition--until now. The role of Queen Bee had been hers by default, but Rory could feel it toppling in her favor.

Which, she had to admit, felt pretty good. Since she couldn't figure out anything else in her life, climbing the ladder at the Gazette was feat enough to make her day. The fact that it seemed to truly and deeply perturb Nancy was just icing on the proverbial cake.

She was mixing metaphors. Classic writing sin. She was too hyped up to care, which was a sure sign of just how good she felt. Because Rory, even in the heights of giddiness, usually was a stickler for the rules of the written word. Even in her head. Which was a different level of insanity all together.

Nancy pursed her lips, tossing her hair back slightly. "Fine," she said, capping her pen. "I think I'll work at home today."

As opposed to every other day when she worked at home, along with the rest of the staff.

Lyman and Dewey bid her a bland farewell and Rory just watched as the woman sucked herself together, prickly as a cactus, and left the building. Ned had already retreated to his office, where he was arguing animatedly with Meredith about the relative quality of pica.

Dewey returned himself to some task Rory couldn't identify, though it did involve a pen on his paper (and had he heard of a computer?) and Lyman began riffling through same papers on his desk. Rory was still too pleased with herself to do much of anything except sit there and be pleased with herself. It was a small victory, perhaps, but a victory nonetheless, and as much as she sometimes sucked at confrontation, it really did feel good to _win_.

It wasn't like she could go to Chilton and Yale and work on the campaign trail and a major newspaper and _not_ have some hidden cutthroat attitude. She just hid it well with excessive talking and anal-retentive list making.

"You look proud of yourself," Lyman noted, and Rory realized he was watching her.

She fought the automatic urge to blush, and tried to give her hands something to do. She had a pen and paper but sadly nothing to write about and she was certain it was fairly obvious. "Sometimes I can get a little competitive," she said sheepishly. "Normally, I like to be nice to people. Because, that's just, well, you know, _nice_, but some people just make that so hard. And it's like some people just make you want to be aggressive. Like they bring out that quality in you."

"Yeah, well, remind me never to cross you," he said.

She grimaced a little. As much fun as it was to win, she did not relish a reputation as a pitbull. Very unflattering for the town's golden girl. "Sorry," she said. "I'm not usually that bad. I mean, I know what it must _look_ like, and I'm sure there aren't any _excuses_--"

"Are you kidding?" Lyman asked. "I've been married for nearly nine years. I know better than to piss off a woman who knows what she wants. You're like my wife, you know. Smart as hell and together enough to use it. Though, you may want to watch inducing Nancy into a catfight. I'm really not sure who would win."

Rory couldn't help but grin. "But I'm sure Conrad would love to find out."

"He'd have a pool going before you two even swung the first punch."

"Who said anything about punching?" Rory said. "I prefer to use my claws."

He chuckled. "And people wonder how a little thing like you survived the likes of Yale and Detroit."

"People wonder that?" Rory asked the question before she could stop herself, not that she probably would have even if her mind was able to filter things at anything resembling a reasonable rate. Perception was a funny thing, and it seemed to her that she'd always had innate sense of this town growing up. But now--now it was throwing her for a few loops, from Dean Forester to the Stars Hollow Gazette, Rory was fast learning that she didn't know everything, and that was an odd sensation for her.

And she was a reporter. Asking questions was in her nature. Her second nature. Or...whatever.

"Rory, you've done more stuff than most people in this town can even dream of doing. I mean, working for a _real_ newspaper? Traveling? Living on your own? Most people count themselves lucky to take a plane trip down to Florida for spring break. That means people are going to wonder about _everything_ you do. It's a mixture of awe and confusion and contempt, because you're doing what most people only talk about."

He was so sincere, which was totally un-Lyman-like, which is what made it weirder than just about anything. Weirder and oddly sweet, almost gratifying to hear. But sweet and gratifying didn't change the complete weirdness, which certainly didn't help her formulate her reply. Because she knew how to handle his snark, even pointed as it could be, but his mixture of snarkish sincerity? Beyond difficult to deal with.

"Thank you," she said finally.

They must have reached their feel-good quota, but Lyman's grin quirked salaciously. "Now, if you decide this journalism thing isn't for you, we can talk about your skills in wrestling--"

And moment ruined. At least she didn't need to figure out what to do with a sincere Lyman. "I need to go," she said abruptly.

Lyman nodded. "Yeah, I knew I shouldn't have crossed that line."

"Nope, probably not," she agreed, pushing herself to her feet. "But I do look good in spandex. See you later."

Lyman and Dewey both echoed her goodbye and Rory headed out into the street. If she was going to keep having mornings like this, she needed more coffee.


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Really, there is going to be some stuff happening in the next few chapters. Big things. I promise! Thanks to those who have stuck with me!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Luke didn't even have to look at her. "No coffee."

"Yes, coffee," she said.

He shook his head. "Nope. No coffee."

Her eyes narrowed. "No coffee, as in there's been a sudden disappearance in the world's coffee supply because caffeine-addicted aliens came and took it all to feed their own nefarious habits or no coffee, as in there's be a catastrophic coffee pot incident that destroyed your pot's ability to function?"

"You really think aliens are addicted to caffeine?"

"I'm sure it's a cosmic-wide epidemic."

"You don't need coffee," Luke said.

Rory raised her eyebrows. "That implies there is coffee but that you are choosing to deny me for some reason."

"Maybe I'm stocking up for the aliens."

"Clever, but I'm more dangerous than aliens."

"Which is why you don't need coffee."

"Are you really still trying to change the Gilmores?"

Luke sighed, resting his hands on the counter. "It's a full moon out tonight," he said. "I always feel a renewed desire to make you two healthy at a full moon."

"Interesting," Rory said. "Perhaps it's a vestige of your caveman instincts to protect your brood."

"You're my brood now?"

"I don't know," Rory admitted. "I thought you were serious about my mother."

"What?"

"Why else would you be concerned about my coffee consumption?"

"I hate to see young people throw away their lives?"

"Still avoiding the question."  "What question?"

"If you're serous about my mother!"

"I thought we were talking about coffee."

"Oh, no. The coffee is just a guise for the greater issue of why you're feeling territorial but refusing to acknowledge a real attachment."

"Rory, what makes you think that I'm not serious about your mother?"

Rory raised her eyebrows. "What evidence do I have to prove to me that you are serious about my mother?" she ventured back. "I mean, I know you're _serious_ in the sense that you're not laughing ha-ha and whatnot because really, that's just not who you are. But I don't even know what you two _do_ together."

He was watching her with that look, that crinkled brow that showed he was more confused by her than anything else, which really was his normal look in the end. "I thought your mother said you didn't want to know."

"Well, _some_ details, perhaps," she said. "But in general, it would be nice to know the intentions of the man who my mother is supposedly involved with."

"Since my intentions would likely be impure?" Luke asked, he moved to pick up a cup, filling it while he talked. "I think somehow you've gotten yourself confused with a father from the fifties and I'm really not entirely sure what to say to you."

Rory sighed, shoulders sagging dramatically as Luke put the cup in front of her. "Is it so much to want to know if you're really _with_ my mother? As in, you two, together for the long haul, or is this going to be indefinite flirtation with no hope for future monogamy?"

"You're throwing around some pretty big words there," he said. "Wouldn't it just be easier to ask if I love her or not?"

Yes, as a matter of fact it would. Why did concise thoughts never come to her head? "Well?"

He just laughed and shook his head. "Rory, I've probably loved your mother for years now," he said. "There is no life for me without Lorelai Gilmore. Believe me, I've tried. I even wanted that, after all the crap she's put me through. But I keep coming back to the fact that I'm stuck with her. Which is okay since she's stuck with me, too, though it's hell on my profit margin. Now that we're a thing, apparently she doesn't always need to pay for coffee."

"Scandalous," Rory said, though she wasn't really thinking about the coffee. She was thinking about _I've probably loved your mother for years now_. She smiled. "So, if you and my mom are you and my mom, does that make me your almost-would-be daughter?"

"I have a daughter," he said.

"Does she get free coffee?"

"Is that all I mean to you?"

"I have a habit to feed," she pointed out. "And not a very high paying job."

"No, my daughter does not get free coffee."

"Probably because you don't let her drink coffee."   
"It'll rot your insides," Luke came back.

"How I've missed hearing you say that."

"Are we done here?"

"For now," she consented. It still wasn't concrete, but it was all she was going to get.

He rolled his eyes. "Tell your mom I'll see her tonight."

"Will do," she said as she watched him go.

She finished the last of her coffee with a long sip and couldn't help but smile. Small victories, indeed. She may not have gotten free coffee out of the deal, but hearing Luke say those words--well, it certainly did make a difference.

She was truly on a roll today. Maybe it was time to push her luck.

-o-

It didn't take luck to find Dean at the stereo shop, but she knew she'd need luck to get him out of it.

Luck and a whole lot of persuasion.

Plastering a smile on her face, she strode in, moving straight to the back counter where Dean was sorting through a box.

He looked up as she approached and his face brightened. Her luck did seem to be holding out.

"Hi," she said.

Pulling out a package of batteries, Dean made a notation on a sheet of paper. "Hi."

"How's work?" she asked.

"Work's work," he replied. "I'm just sorting through a shipment."

"Batteries," Rory observed.

Dean put down the pack and grinned at her. "Someone's got to do it."

She looked around, noting the handful of customers. Gilbert was explaining something with large gestures to a little old lady. "Looks like the place is doing well."

Dean glanced around and shrugged. "We usually pick up a decent amount of business traffic during the daytime from people on their breaks. There's not a lot to do sometimes downtown, and I guess perusing the latest in stereo equipment is a nice work getaway."

"Well, why do you think I'm here?"

"Aw, and I thought it was for my winning personality," Dean said with mock hurt.

She couldn't help but smile. "That's just the cherry on top."

"Well, being a cherry isn't that bad," Dean said reluctantly.

"It's the best part," Rory protested. "My mom always hoards the cherry, saves it until the end so she can savor it. She even steals mine sometimes, so much so that I thought I didn't like cherries because that's what she always told me, but then when I actually tried one I realized I did like them and that my mother had simply been abusing her power all those years."

"That's awful."

"Traumatic even," Rory said. "Hey, let's make up for it by getting some."

"Cherries?"   
"Ice cream!" she said. "You know, what the cherry goes on top of."

He looked a little confused, probably because her mind was moving faster than even she was aware of, and how she'd managed to segue from work chitchat to her mother's cherry penchant to going out for ice cream was a stretch. Even for her. "Ice cream?"

"Yep, the ideal summertime treat. A wide variety of flavors. Even mint chocolate chip. And you love mint chocolate chip."

"It is minty," he conceded.

"And chippy."

"Chippy?"

"Technical term," she said with a shrug. "So, you game?"

He sighed a little, looking at the store. "Rory, I can't," he said. "I have to work."

She had expected such an answer, and was not about to give up that easily. "But Gilbert's here!" she said. "You said yourself that Gilbert was your dad's most trusted employee. Fully capable and trusted with opening and closing the store, and more certainly watching it for an hour or two."

"But, I promised--"

"You promised me we could be hang out," Rory said.  "When did I promise that?"

"You said we'd be friends."

"Yeah, but--"

"But nothing. Friends hang out. Therefore, we need to hang out. Besides, imagine how Gilbert would feel if you never left him alone. Gilbert needs a chance to stand on his own two feet. So, if you won't do it for me, do it for Gilbert."

His face was softening. He was relenting. He ran a hand through his hair and drew a deep breath. "Okay," he said. "Just the ice cream."

"Just the ice cream," Rory agreed solemnly. At least, far as Dean had to know.

-o-

It was summer and it was hot and, just like Rory had suspected, Dean hadn't really eaten lunch that day. It was a strange pleasure, ordering him the mint chocolate chip in a dish, and forking over her cash. True, her initial plan had been to go Dutch, which she was certain was still a smart idea, but she had coerced him into this. It seemed wrong to ask him to pay. Even as friends. While having boys pay for her was flattering, paying for Dean--well, it just felt right.

He accepted graciously, spooning a few bites into his mouth while Rory paid and took her own dish of bunny tracks. Well, he was gracious and compliant until they got back onto the street.

"Rory, you shouldn't be paying for me."

"Don't be silly," she said. "I can't force you away from your job and then make you pay for yourself."

"You don't make that much money," he said.  
She shrugged, nonchalant as she led him down the street. "And I also don't pay rent and have filthy rich grandparents. Trust me when I tell you that I am not in want."

He fell in step with her, the bowl in one hand, his spoon in another. "But you're going to be looking for another job," he said. "Moving expenses are hard to come by. I know this stuff."

"Ah, and you forget that I was the girl who drove from Michigan in a U-Haul I couldn't drive."

He sighed, laughing a little. "What happened to your car?"

"Oh, I still have it, stored nicely at my mother's house. I just never took it. When I was on the campaign trail, there wasn't any need. Because, well, I was being bussed everywhere. And once I settled in Michigan, I really didn't want it. There was no place I wanted to drive and besides, public transit is far more cost effective. That and I didn't want to park my car on the street. Too much can happen to it out there. And since my days at Chilton, I was already proficient at taking the bus, so really it was sort of a comforting sort of thing to be able to use it to get home and back--a little something to remind me of where I came from."

He was watching her, unable to hide his amusement. "And here I thought maybe you had environmental reasons for it," he said. "Saving the planet while you write your way to fame."

"That's quite a catch-phrase," Rory said. "I should have thought of that. It might have gotten me a bigger position, or, oh, I know. A column. I could have been the Conservationist from Connecticut."

Dean nodded his approval, spooning another bite of ice cream. "Catchy. If journalism didn't pan out, you might have a career in marketing."  
They were meandering in a very pleasant fashion. She began to angle them toward the park, away from downtown. Remote and sunny and full of people who knew how to enjoy a summer afternoon--a lesson Dean still needed help with, quite clearly. She needed all the help she could get. "I just don't know if I'm mainstream enough for marketing. What if I want to reference a Russian author for a children's cereal?"

"That would be weird," Dean agreed. "Even for you."

"Tolstoy's Toasted Oats," Rory suggested.

"To get rid of the war and peace at the breakfast table."

"I like it," Rory said. "Maybe you're the one who should have gone into marketing."

Dean laughed into another bite of ice cream. "Right, with all my free time."

"Aw, you could swing it," she said. "I have great faith in you."

He snorted a little. "At least someone does," he said. "Sometimes I wonder."

That was too depressing, so not the mood she was going for. "Well, you shouldn't," she said. "Just focus on the positive. You've got ice cream."

"I do have ice cream."

"See? There. It's good."

And it was good.

The park was warm and green at this time of year and brimming with life. Children and cyclists and young mothers and little old men on park benches--Stars Hollow's most pleasant cross-section, frolicking away the summer heat in the great outdoors.

It was idyllic, really, which was partly why Rory was drawn here. Perhaps it was part of her fantasies--kind of a perfect date situation--and she figured that a little atmosphere couldn't hurt her chances of softening Dean up.

And he did look a bit softened. The weariness seemed to fade a little from his face, which showed a hint more of color in the sunlight. Really, this wasn't just good for her and her plan to woo--it was good for him. He was going to work himself to death at this rate, and his mother's oh-so-positive disposition certainly wasn't doing anything for Dean's spirits. This was as much an attempt to give Dean some much-needed relief as it was her attempt to seduce him with her wit and charm.

"You're dripping," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"You're dripping," he repeated, nodding at her. "Your ice cream."

"Oh!" she said, looking down and noticing the trail of melted chocolate oozing down her hand. "I'm dripping!"   
"Yeah," he said. He fumbled, pulling a napkin from him pocket. "Take this."

She took the proffered napkin, attempting to mop up her mess one-handed. "I never have been good at multitasking," she said. "Walking, eating ice cream, and talking all at once is a bit much for me."

"Well, we can always sit," Dean said.

"Are you saying you agree with my assessment?"

"I know better than to disagree with you," Dean said. "Come on. That's what benches are for."

She narrowed her eyes at him in humor. "Again you try the logic," she said. "I am not so easily distracted."

"Well, if you'd rather have your entire ice cream cone melt all over the sidewalk, then by all means, we can keep walking."

"Alright," she relented. "We sit. Only because that bench looks awfully lonely."

"And we can't have lonely benches," Dean agreed.

"As long as we're on the same page here," she said, seating herself.

Dean followed suit, spooning a bite into his mouth as he settled. "I would hate to add more stress to your already overtaxed psyche."

"Quite thoughtful of you," Rory said, licking dutifully at her ice cream.

"You're the one who came and dragged me out of work," Dean reminded her.

"That's right," she said. "So really, it's all quite thoughtful of me."

He scraped his spoon against the side of his bowl. "You certainly have grown bold in your time on your own."

He looked at her, peaking his eyes through his bangs, and her senses tingled. "What?" she asked. "You're staring."

Swallowing, he blinked. "You--you got some--"

"Some what?"

"Ice cream," he said, nodding at her face. "Right there."

His hand lifted slightly, indicating her left side, but all Rory could see was his rich golden eyes, the long lines of his fingers, the heat of his body close to hers.

It was too much. He wanted it. She wanted it. And it was going to happen--her lips to his, right there in the park, birds chirping, children playing, probably even a dozen violins if she listened hard enough.

She leaned in. Lips ready. One, two, three--let go...

And just like that, the moment was gone.

Not the fireworks and violins she'd expected--not quite. Just Dean, his face tight and his brow furrowed.

"Whoa," he said, pulling away, hands up. "I thought you understood."

"I understand," Rory said. "I mean, I thought this was where it was going. I mean, the way we were talking, the way we were--"

"Rory," he said. "I told you I'd be your friend. But you need to not push this. Friends don't do this kind of thing. Friends talk and hang out. They don't go on dates and if this is what this is--"

"Dean, you act like we're still kids," she said. "Like everything we do is so easily defined, like boyfriend and girlfriend are little titles we can give each other and then they suddenly hold meaning. We are friends, but things are happening, things we can't control."

His jaw clenched a little and he stiffened. "I need these boundaries," he said. "And if you can't respect them--"

"Dean--"

"If you can't be satisfied with just being my friend with no hope for anything more..."

"Dean--" she tried again, hoping to get him to listen, to get him to understand, to get him to be reasonable.

"Then we can't do this," he concluded despite her. "I'm not going to lead you on."

"But, Dean, you don't understand," she said. "There's chemistry."

"There's always been chemistry," he said back, harsher this time. "There was chemistry the moment we first met and each time we got back together. There was chemistry when you chose Jess. There was chemistry when I chose Lindsay. And there was chemistry when you let me walk away, okay? Chemistry doesn't meant everything. Chemistry isn't what makes a relationship. And I'm not going to plunge into something I promised myself I wouldn't do just for the sake of chemistry."

He'd been angry before. He'd yelled before. He'd even hurt her before. And the worst part was when that Dean hurt her, he always hurt her with the truth. Usually the truth about her.

And it was then that she could see just how badly she'd hurt him. What she had classified as a teenaged romance had meant so much more to him. Every time.

He was looking away now, eyes on the ground.

"Dean," she said gently. "I--I'm sorry."

His eyes flashed up to hers. "I don't want your pity," he said. "I've always enjoyed spending time with you, but I'm not so sure we should keep doing this."

"No!" she said quickly, feeling panic move through her. "I mean, that's not necessary. I get it, okay? Friends. I mean, I need the friends."

He laughed a little in disbelief. "Somehow, I doubt that."

"No, seriously," she said. "I mean, I'm not in school anymore--there's no friends there, no Paris to room with. Lane's too busy for friends and my mom--well, she's my mom and I have no idea what she's doing half the time and I go to Luke's but he's Luke and he's not exactly the kind of person I'm going to go hang out with on a nice summer day. Not that I want to be your friend just because you're convenient, because it's not like that, but it's just talking to you, I realize how much I miss you." How much she wished she'd never let him go.

His face remained impassive for a moment, a long moment, before he finally nodded. "There's part of me that misses you, too," Dean said. "I still think we need to step back a little bit."

"I can't just ignore you--"

"And you don't have to," Dean said. "If we see each other on the street, great. Maybe we can catch a cup of coffee every now and then. But no more afternoons off. No more nights out. Not until things are simpler between us."

She wanted to say no. To refuse. To tell Dean she couldn't settle for that.

But she had to settle for that. Because he was serious. She couldn't bat her eyes and get him back. She couldn't smile and woo him to her. She couldn't call him and have him come running.

Clara had told her that she had to win Dean back. Her mother said that Dean had changed. Luke didn't want to see Dean get hurt. And now Dean was standing there, telling her they needed to step back. If she pushed to hard, she knew this time, he might walk away for good--and this time, it wouldn't be because of her, but because of himself.

"Okay," she said, swallowing hard. "Okay. I just need you as a friend."

He held her gaze, his eyes turbulent and uncertain before he nodded. "Thanks for ice cream," he said. "I'll see you around."

She couldn't even say goodbye as he turned and walked away.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: There is an actual plot twist in this chapter! It only took me 19 chapters to get here! That said, it wasn't my idea and it's not overly, erm, happy. Sadly, sometimes the best character growth comes in times of conflict of turmoil. Also, I think most of you have read them, but for those who want more insight into Dean, be sure to check out the prequels to this fic :)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Lorelai was eating ice cream. Which wouldn't be too unusual, except she was sitting at the table, eating ice cream, and staring at it like it was the first time she'd ever done such a thing.

"What are you doing?"

Lorelai didn't look up, but kept her critical gaze on the bowl. "Studying."

"Studying ice cream?"

"The package said it was peaches and cream."

"So?"

Her mother scooped out a bit and held it up to her. "Does this look like a peach to you?"

Rory looked closer, noting the odd shape and reddish coloration. "Looks like a berry."

"I know," her mother said. "It does look like a berry. And taste like a berry. And smells like one. So I'm trying to figure out if it is in fact a berry and why a berry would be in peaches and cream ice cream."

"I suppose calling it peaches and cream doesn't necessarily preclude the presence of berries. Are there peaches?"

Her mother took a bite. "Yes."

"Cream?"

"Yes."

"Then it's peaches and cream with a little extra."

"That's not what the box says."

"Then the box is lying."

"Why would the box lie?"

Rory glared. "Why are you being so juvenile?"

"And why are you in such a foul mood?"

Rory sighed, collapsing into the chair across from her mother. "My plan isn't working," she said.

"Okay, you're going to have to fill me in here," Lorelai said. "What plan?"

"My plan to woo."

"Your plan to woo who?"

"Woo _Dean_."

"Who? Dean?"

"No, _woo_ Dean," Rory said. "I have a plan to woo Dean."

Her mother raised her eyebrows, nodding slowly, cautiously. "Okay. And why do you have a plan to woo Dean?"

Of all the days for her mother to be slow on the uptake, today was _not_ the ideal one. "Because I want to be with him," she said in exasperation.

"But I thought _he_ wanted to be friends."

"He _does_," Rory said. "Which is why I need to woo him."

"But doesn't wooing go against exactly what he wants?"

"Yes," Rory said, forcing herself to be patient. "Which is why I am wooing in stealth."

Her mother's expression was a mix of humor and disbelief. "Wooing in stealth? As in, what, wooing without him knowing it? I mean, doesn't it take two to woo?"

Rory crinkled her forehead. "Wooing can be a solo event," she said. "I woo and he is wooed. If we're both wooing each other then I'm not sure it's really wooing."

"Then what is it?"

"Flirting or just dating. The whole reason one woos is to get the attention of someone else. That's the purpose of wooing, is it not?"

Her mother seemed to consider this. "I suppose. To woo is to try to catch someone else's attention, which is sort of what you want to do, but then I don't understand why it's in stealth here."

"Because if he _knew_ was trying to woo, he would be upset," Rory reasoned. "But I need to woo him to get him interested again, but I have to let him think he's just falling for me."

"Which is really what wooing is."

"So you see my difficulty."

"Actually, all I see is the fact that my daughter is officially neurotic," Lorelai said. "I think this calls for a pizza."

"A pizza?" Rory asked, incredulous. "How will a pizza help this?"

Her mother stood, pushing away from the table. "It won't," she said with a shrug. "But I figure if I'm going to spend any more time trying to figure out this whole wooing thing, I'm going to need the extra calories to maintain such a level of thought. Because, really, you are in rare form tonight."

With a sigh, Rory buried her head in her arms, folded across the table. "You're supposed to _help_ me, not fatten me up."

Flipping open the phone book, her mother was unfazed. "Oh, I'm helping," she said. "With all the stress you're feeling right now, I'm taking the responsibility of trying to find food for you. Not to mention the fact that I happen to know that pizza can be a real comfort food, especially if I order Canadian bacon and pineapple. Plus, the pineapple totally has the nutrients you need to help spur on your plotting. So I'm totally helping you out here."

Rory lifted her head. "You're still trying to make me fat, though."

Picking up the phone, Lorelai just grinned. "Come on, sweetie," her mother said. "What better way to disguise that you're on the woo? Dean would never suspect that you're trying to win him by gaining twenty pounds."

And that, oddly, made sense. For tonight, that was good enough.

-o-

Luke's had been a staple of Rory's daily life before, but now she positively lived there. She got up early just to see if she could catch Dean. She stayed through lunch in case he happened to stop by. She even idled close to closing time in case Dean needed a drink on the way home.

She walked a lot, too. When people asked, she told them it was a part of her writing process, that it was the inherent journalist in her always searching for a story. She mostly just wanted excuses to walk by the stereo shop and see Dean hunched behind the counter, to see him talking to a costumer, that rare smile on his face.

She missed him.

Her articles came steadily--covering the full gamut of town events. That was good, she supposed, because it kept her busy. Distracted. She needed that right now more than she ever had before. Work was her refuge, her way of maintaining purpose, of keeping structure. She was pretty sure she'd be flailing without it.

She was a little afraid she was flailing with it.

Not that she'd ever admit it.

She was walking, pretending to contemplate her latest assignment, a very in-depth expose delving into the dark world PTA overspending. It was all well and good and it was a nice day out--nicer than most, because Connecticut could really be rather hot in the summer--but it was warm today, like a refreshing kind of weather, and so she'd walk outside just for the weather, as though there were no PTA expose or Dean to spy on.

That was when Lorelai called. "I need coffee."

"Then I suggest you go back to the kitchen where I know Sookie keeps a pot going all day long."

"I need non-inn coffee."

"You're discriminating between coffees now?"

"Oh, you do it, too."

"I do not," Rory protested, keeping her wayward path toward the downtown.

"You refuse to drink the first cup in the morning."

"That's entirely different."

"How?"

"The first cup is never quite right. It hasn't settled properly."

"See, you're discriminating. First cup, second cup, fifth cup, they should be all the same. But they're not. Just like inn coffee is not the same as Luke coffee or home coffee or any other coffee."

"Are you sure you're just not looking for reasons to see Luke?"

Her mother scoffed. "My priority has always been coffee."

"I feel the love."

"Meet me there?"

"I'm already on my way."

-o-

They got there at the same time.

To most people, in most situations, that might have been just a little too weird. But they were Gilmores and this was Stars Hollow and the commonplace coincidences were part of what Rory had so missed.

Besides, it was another sign of just how ridiculously in synch she was with her mother. Especially when it came to caffeine. She figured it was very possible that they had drunk simultaneous cups even across the country from one another because that was just the way Gilmore girls could be.

"Do you remember how just a month ago we couldn't do this?" her mother asked, opening the door for her.

Rory slipped inside. "I choose not to."

"Not a bad plan," her mother said, sidling up to a seat at the counter. "Denial."

Rory sat down next to her. "It's not just a river in Egypt."

"Just a stage of grief."

"You're grieving?" 

"We don't have our coffee yet, do we?"

"Good point."

Luke came back around the counter, shoving his pencil behind his ear. "You two alone are keeping the economy of Columbia flourishing."

"We support a global economy," Lorelai said. "Now fill us up."

"I'm surprised to see you here," he said.

"Because we're such rare visitors?" Lorelai ventured.

"Or we're just very surprising."

"Oh, I like that," Lorelai said. "Surprise is in our nature."

Luke just looked at them, all too serious, and not in that cynical Luke-serious way, but in the serious-serious way that made Rory uneasy. "You haven't heard, then," Luke said, resting heavily on his elbows on the counter.

Rory's heart skipped a beat. "Heard what?"

"About Dean's dad."

"He had a heart attack," Rory said slowly, though she knew there was something more. Something else. Something not good. Something _really_ not good. "But he's recovering."

Luke dropped his head. "He died earlier today," Luke said. "A second heart attack. There was nothing they could do."

"Oh, no," her mother breathed next to her. "Today?"

Luke nodded.

"Have you talked to him?"

Luke shook his head. "No. I think his mother was with there when it happened. Dean took Clara up from the store. The only reason I know is because Gilbert stopped in here on his way up."

"This is so not what he needed right now," her mother moaned.

"Trust me, I know," Luke said. "I mean, as if he hasn't had enough to overcome, now he's got to get over this. Just when he was really getting back into the swing of things."

"Well, and his mother won't be helping, now more than ever."

Rory could only listen, watching them go back and forth like it was a tennis match. Not that she wasn't used to her mother's and Luke's incessant ability to verbally counter one another, but it wasn't the back and forth nature of the conversation, but the _content_. About Dean. All those little comments, all those little things they seemed to know--it was all coming to a head and she just couldn't make sense of it. What they knew. How they knew it. Why they knew it.

"Wait," Rory said, shaking her head. "What are you talking about? I mean, since when do _either _of you really _know_ Dean?"

This shut them up, and they exchanged glances. Luke dropped his head again and her mother tucked her hair behind her ear. "You've been gone--"

"--a long time, I _know_," Rory said. "You keep telling me that but you never tell me what's _really_ going on with Dean and the two of you and this entire _town_."

"We've just seen Dean go through a lot," her mother said. "Each summer he's been back, it's like he's needed someone there for him, someone to believe in him. And we just--happened to be there."

"Happened to be there?" Rory asked, unable to control her incredulity. It was just a lot to take in--the fact that Dean's died had died, the fact that there were answers to the mystery of Dean that had been so close to her all along.

"You never really realized it," her mom said. "Just how hard he took things."

"How hard he took _what_?"

"His marriage," Luke interjected. "The affair. The break-ups."

Rory shook her head. "I don't--"

"He needed someone to build him up," her mother said. "His family wasn't doing it. And someone needed to. The things he managed to get done without anyone supporting him--it was ridiculous. We couldn't just let the kid sit around and feel like he was worthless."

"Worthless?" Rory asked. "But he's not--he's always been so confident."

Lorelai just smiled. "You know how you've been confused about Dean?"

Rory just stared.

"It's because you're still making assumptions about him," her mom said. She said it gently, but clearly, and Rory felt a little like she'd been slapped.

She felt too numb to reply. Numbed by the truth of it. Numbed by what it meant. Numbed because she still didn't quite know what to make of it all.

"Do you think we should go see him?" Luke asked, quietly to her mother.

"I'm not sure we should," her mom replied. "I mean, it'd still be weird."

"Yeah, but we can't just _leave_ him--"

"I'll go," Rory said suddenly, finding her voice.

They both stopped, looking at her.

"It wouldn't be weird for me," she said.

Her mother looked at Luke. "She's right about that."

Luke still looked uncertain, and that was so _weird_. That Luke was worried if Rory would be right for _Dean_.

"I'm his friend," Rory explained. "He needs a friend."

Luke glanced at her mom, who simply nodded her head. Then he looked back at Rory. "Yeah," he said. "That'd be good. He has a hard time opening up, so that'd be good."

That much she knew--she'd been prodding at this new Dean long enough to figure out just how tight-lipped he could be. What she couldn't be sure about, no matter what she told her mother and Luke, was if Dean would respond to her. She and Dean were in a state of flux it seemed, a struggle of wills and desires and intentions that she still wasn't totally clear on. Friends, they said. Friends, they insisted on. But _more_ was all Rory felt.

But right then, _more_ didn't matter. Dean needed someone to lean on, and Rory could only hope she was strong enough to play the part. He'd done it for her--even when he shouldn't have. Even after he married Lindsay. One call, and he'd come. He'd always been there for her when she needed him like that.

It was time to return the favor.


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: We'll see how Dean is doing here. I have to admit, I like this chapter :) Thanks!

CHAPTER TWENTY

She tried calling Dean, but he didn't answer. That didn't surprise her, but it certainly didn't make her life any easier. Nor did it soothe her hyped-up nerves. Hearing the news about Dean's father had been bad enough on a purely human level--knowing someone else would be grieving was never an easy thing for someone to hear, even for someone with an emotionally impaired heart like her own.

But knowing that this was _Dean_ only made it worse. It took so much these days to see him smile, and Rory couldn't help but think how poorly this boded for Dean's future plans.

Throw the overly protective stance of her mother and Luke, and Rory was nearly beside herself with worry. She couldn't totally figure out why, just this sense that Dean would take this very poorly and that he probably didn't have any other shoulders to cry on.

Though, she had to admit, the thought of Dean crying on _any_ shoulder was hard to see. In all their time together, he'd been the strong one for her, even when he shouldn't have been--like when she was with Jess or he was with Lindsay. He had the role of knight in shining armor down to a T and all he really needed was the horse.

But she was beginning to sense that maybe there was more to it than that. That maybe he was playing that role, doing those duties, but that maybe, just maybe, even knights in shining armor had their weaknesses. Had their needs. Could fall apart just as easily as anyone else. They just could hide it behind their armor, and Rory had a sinking feeling that it was getting pretty rusty behind there for Dean.

So, just because he refused to answer his phone didn't mean Rory was going to leave him alone. There were times and places to abide by such wishes, and this was simply not one of them. She would just have to go to him--and keep going until she found him.

Her first thought was the stereo shop, but she dismissed it. Even with all the concerns Dean seemed to have for the family business, being there on the day of his father's death was not likely. Not even for someone who continually put aside his own feelings to the extent Dean seemed to be capable of.

There were other places, she was sure. Hospital? Funeral home?

Possible. But awkward. Her best bet, she hoped anyway, would be his home.

Her second hope could only be that his mother wouldn't be there. Rory didn't need another scathing look from her, especially now that she was a grief-stricken widow. Which Rory felt for, she really did, but it also scared her a little. She could only imagine the wrath that May might be willing to let loose at a time like this, and Rory didn't want to subject herself to that.

Or Dean, for that matter. It affected Dean, too. Why was it so hard to remember that sometimes? 

Turned out, all her worrying was for naught. Because the minute she turned onto his street, she saw him.

He was alone, of course, sitting on the front porch of his parents' (parent's, now, _parent's_) house bathed in a small glow from the porch light. His legs looked impossibly long, bent up, and he was leaning on them with his elbows. One arm dangled free in front of him, the other was aloft, holding a bottle of what she could only assume was beer.

And he was just sitting there, taking a drink every now and then, his eyes cast outwards, looking at everything and nothing all at once.

He looked beautiful, of course, the way he always did, but as she looked at him, really _looked_ at him, she noticed for the first time just how vulnerable he was.

If he saw her coming, he didn't say anything. But he also didn't look surprised when she was standing right in front of him. In fact, he hardly moved at all, didn't even acknowledge her presence, though his eyes skimmed briefly over her.

The night was beautiful--clear and warm with cicadas humming in the background. The kind of night she always loved, the kind of night young couples lived for.

"Hey," she said.

He didn't move, didn't look at her.

"I heard," she began, trying to figure out how to finish that thought. Saying that she was sorry seemed so trite. Saying that she felt for him didn't seem like enough.

But there was nothing else she could say. Nothing else she knew how to say. For her ways as a writer, she was a person of cold, hard fact, of truth, not of feelings. It had always been a problem for her, knowing how to say _I love you_, knowing how to be honest about what she was feeling, about what she wanted.

"Dean, I'm so sorry," she said, the words pouring out too fast to stop them. "I--I can't even--"

Dean didn't look up, just stared at the bottle of beer in his hand. "They say he went quickly," he said tonelessly. "Didn't even see it coming. Didn't feel it."

She shifted awkwardly on her feet. "Was it--?"

"Heart attack," Dean concluded for her. "Genetic heart defect. That was the reason they were trying to keep him calm all the time. Trying to make sure nothing got him going. Any little thing, they said. Could set him off."

Tentatively, she moved to his side, settling next to him on the porch steps. "That's awful."

Dean laughed humorlessly. "It's probably my fault," he said. "He was so worried about the store. I tried to tell him that everything was under control, but he didn't really believe me. And if I had just made more money--helped with the bills--I mean, maybe--"

"Dean," she admonished gently, reaching a hand to his leg. "This isn't your fault."

Dean took a swig of his beer mirthlessly. "My mom thinks it is," he said. "She would hardly look at me. Didn't want me there. I've done everything she wanted, everything she asked, and she wanted me to leave. Leave the arrangements to her."

"She's just upset," Rory tried to explain, not because she believed it, not because she wanted to defend May, but because the last thing Dean needed was to buy into that type of guilt trip--even if his mother _was_ inflicting it upon him, intentionally or not.

Dean still wouldn't look at her, his eyes still transfixed on some indefinable point on the ground in front of him. "Funeral will be on Friday," he said. "I'll have to close the store down to go. But just for the afternoon. I mean, we still need the money."  "I'm sure you can think about that later," Rory told him gently.

"Later. Right." He took another drink, short and hard.

There was a pause, a long one, stretching into the nighttime sounds. The street was quiet and empty and the stars were gone, hidden by a veil of clouds that drifted passed the moon. She wondered briefly if maybe it would have been better for Luke to be here, to do a guy thing, or even her mother. Even her mother could pull off maternal when she needed it and really _anyone_ would have been better at this than Rory was.

Still, she was here. She owed him. She _wanted_ to do this.

She looked at him again, at his hunched shoulders, at his drawn features. He looked old then--too old and yet still far too young. He was trying to carry the weight of his family, the weight of the world, and all Rory wanted was to carry him--just for tonight, just for now.

It was such a foreign feeling, an unusual sensation. So often, she'd relied on him. Even after they'd broken up, he'd been there, so quick to defend her, to protect her. It almost hurt to think of how often she'd taken that for granted. It wasn't until she was sitting here, seeing him so shaken, so in need, that she realized how much he'd given her, how much he gave anyone around him.

It was his turn now. She could only hope he'd take it.

"Dean?" she asked. "What do you need?"

At that, he looked at her for the first time, his eyes almost surprised, perplexed. "What do I need?"

"Yeah," Rory said, both encouraged and unnerved by his sudden attention. "What do you need? Your mother isn't the only one hurting right now."

Dean blinked once, hard, and swallowed. He studied her for a moment, his eyes traveling across her features. "You're so beautiful," he said finally, his voice nothing more than a whisper. He reach a hand up, letting it run through her hair. "You've always had the prettiest hair."

Her intentions were pure, that much was true. She'd wanted to offer support, to offer her shoulder to cry on, a hug--something to help him deal, something to comfort him when it was all falling apart.

But that look in his eyes, the feel of his hands--it felt so _good_. Too good to stop and think about the situation, to think about why now, why here.

It happened faster than Rory could keep track of. His lips, wet with emotion, moving toward her. His eyes, fluttering closed, as he approached. "I miss you so much," he whispered as his hand cradled her head, just like she remembered, like it was supposed to.

As his lips touched hers, she closed her eyes and melted into him. It was a slow kiss at first, his lips soft against hers and his fingers gently threading through her hair. His other hand reached around her, rested on her shoulder, pulling her close.

"Rory," he breathed as he pulled away, "Rory."

She didn't reply. She didn't need to. Their lips touched again, harder now, all the weeks of tension breaking between them. The distance closed, the hesitation ceased, and Rory felt her skin prickling with anticipation as he kissed her yet again.

Her own hands wandered, moving over his face, feeling the smoothness of his skin, the light flutter of his eyelashes.

It was like before, only more. All the passion, all the feelings--they were all there and real and they weren't just friends, they'd never been _just_ friends, and Rory wanted nothing more than this.

When he broke away, he stayed close, resting his forehead against hers. "Come with me," he said, almost like a prayer, almost like the last hope of a dying man and she could not refuse.

Rory had no words to reply but none were required. He was pulling her to her feet, guiding her up the stairs, inside the door. They were in his room and the door was closed and the house was quiet as he ran a hand down her back, the other lingering on her bottom as he kissed her yet again.

They were moving now, to the bed, and she was easing down, her face still tilted up to meet his. And his lips were everywhere now, on her mouth, on her cheeks, warm and easy and Rory's body seemed to pulse with his.

They were both down now, pulled against one another, his fingers fondling the bottom of her shirt, tickling her thighs, running beneath her skirt.

And she wanted it. She _wanted_ it.

But she couldn't.

Not now.

Not like this.

Dean wasn't married this time. He wasn't attached to anyone else. There were no major moral barriers. They were single, consenting adults, who were deeply attracted to each other--always had been, always would be. They'd danced around it for weeks, but--

Not like this.

Because Dean was grieving right now, even if he didn't know it. He was grieving and he was desperate and she would never regret tonight but she knew part of him always would. He'd fought this too hard and maybe she didn't understand the reasons why, maybe it frustrated her, but she had to respect it. Had to respect him enough to know when he couldn't stop himself, when he was giving in for all the wrong reasons.

She moved her fingers to his face, parting them slightly. "Dean," she said. "Dean, no."

"No?" he asked, kissing her again. He breathed against her, hot and heavy. "I thought this was what you wanted."

The kisses came again and her body rocked into him. "Not now," she said. "Please, Dean. You know you don't want it like this."

At that he stopped abruptly, drawing himself away, anger flashing in his eyes. "I thought you _wanted_ this."

Rory propped herself up. "I do," she said quickly. "Trust me, I really, really do. Like _really_. But Dean, I don't want you to do this just so you don't have to think about everything else. I don't want you to do something that you'll regret."

His face went hard. "What, like the rest of my life?"

"That's not what I meant," she protested. "Dean, please."

He stood up shakily. "I can't even make _you_ happy. I never could, though. You always wanted more, wanted something I could never give and I spent years trying to figure that out," he said, his steam heading on full now. "I can't make anyone happy. I don't even know why I try. I mean, I try so hard and I just can't--I can't--and--"

She didn't have time to be hurt, because before she could respond, his face was crumpling. His shoulders curved and he was breaking into pieces despite his best efforts to hold it off.

He let out a strangled sob before crashing back down to the bed.

Scooting next to him, she moved a hand to his back. "Dean, it's okay--"

"Just go," he said, his voice strained. Just like that, his emotions were closed off again, the grief squelched.

"Dean, I don't think--"

"Please, Rory," he said. "I need to be alone."

She was torn. Dean needed someone, he needed something, but she couldn't force him. She wouldn't. She loved him too much to even try. It was too fresh for him, too new. And Rory would respect that.

"Call me, if you need anything," she said. "And I'll talk to you in the morning."

He just nodded.

She let her hand linger a moment more, wishing she could do something, could help him someway.

But there was nothing.

She gave his back one more rub before standing. "You don't have to do this alone," she said. "Just remember that."

He was still staring at nothing when she walked out of the room.

She was nearly halfway home when her own tears came, hard and steady, and she went to her knees in the pale circle of light from a flickering street light.

Because of Dean's grief. Because of her own desire. Because she didn't know how to make him happy and didn't know how to tell him that he was more than enough for her.

-o-

Going about life the next day was hard. Almost like it was her own family who had died. She'd barely known Randy Forester, and Dean had never been very open about his family, but that didn't change the loss she felt.

Lorelai had been waiting for her when she got home and was full of questions--how was Dean, how was he acting, what did he say--and Rory wished she could readily supply the answers. But she didn't know what to say--how to phrase the truth in a way that didn't make it sound so meager: the Dean was hurt, that he was probably falling apart, but he refused to let anyone help. He refused to let Rory help.

It shouldn't have surprised her. Dean had always been one to hurt alone.

She called Dean around ten, just to see how he was. His phone went straight to voicemail and his home line simply rang and rang. She left a message, offered to meet him for lunch, but she knew he wouldn't call her back.

Part of her wanted to go to him. But she'd already offered herself, her comfort, and he wasn't ready for it. Not yet, she told herself, as she tried to convince herself it didn't hurt to be turned away.

She still had a job to do, and do it she would. After stopping by the diner, where she was inundated with even _more_ questions from Luke, she headed to the paper's office, hoping to find something else to distract her, to say the least.

The paper's office was always somewhat provincial, hectic but still utterly quaint, with the small-time deadline and harried design process, which was fueled by necessity and rarely influenced by quality or standards. Nonetheless, Ned took it seriously, as seriously as a guy could in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts.

Today he was leaned over the desk, looking over the one other full-time employee, Meredith, a 30-something mom who had taken a computer class by correspondence.

She was in charge of the technology. Her skills with InDesign and Photoshop were amateur at best, but this was Stars Hollow.

"But what about Taylor's ad?" Ned was asking. "He bought a quarter page."

"We don't _have_ a quarter page," Meredith replied. "We come close, though. He'll never know. We can fudge it."

Ned shook his head. "But Taylor _will_ know," Ned said. "The man is anal, and you know it. I don't want him in here demanding a free ad because we skimped on him."

"Well, then you have to cut the article on the road construction over on the Parkway."

"But that's _important_. We have an obligation to our readership."

"Your readership will forgive your ineptitude. Taylor won't."

Ned narrowed his eyes before glancing up at Rory. "What do you think, Rory?"

She was long past her journalistic ideals, at least when it came to the Gazette. "Delete the deck on the article and you'll have your space," she said with a shrug.

Meredith seemed to consider it, moving her mouse thoughtfully. "Could work," she said. "See, look, Ned, I've got this. Don't you need to be planning for the next issue?"

Ned rolled his eyes. "I always need to be planning for the next issue. But I don't even _want_ to. I need someone to pick up an extra 1000 words--Lyman said he _can't_, something about his mother-in-law being in town."

"Have you met Lyman's mother-in-law?" Meredith asked.

"I can do it," Rory interjected, suddenly eager. It was a distraction. A way _not_ to think about Dean. About what Dean was feeling. About what Dean _almost _did.

"I figured you would," Ned said, scratching his head. "But I need someone to pick up his news briefs. Not to mention the Forester obit. I mean, there's just too much to cover this week, and it's _this_ week Lyman picks."

She wasn't sure why, but that made her stop. Not the part about Lyman, because she barely even _knew_ Lyman, much less cared about his familial duties. But the other part. "The obituary," Rory said. "Can I write the obituary?"

Meredith spared her a glance from the computer screen, knowing but reserved. Rory ignored her. She didn't care that it was written all over her face, that it was so _obvious_.

Luckily, Ned wasn't the most observant one in the bunch. He just looked at her, a little perplexed. "You _want_ to write an obit? Kind of morbid, don't you think?"

"Someone has to," she reasoned. "Please. I can do it right."

He studied her a moment before shrugging. "Alright. 500 words by five PM. No later."

It was a deadline Rory wouldn't miss for the world.


	21. Chapter 21

A/N: This is kind of a quiet chapter, but necessarily so. In a few chapters, we'll have another significant plot development, but we have to get there first :) And I'm again behind on review replies but I'm hoping to get the done here soon. Thanks for the comments--they are loved.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Randall Forester had been 54. He was born and raised in Chicago, Illinois. He was the oldest of two sons, born to a mechanic and a home-maker. They were blue collar and Randy had settled in a home down the street from his parents when he married his wife, Barbara May, in the 70s.

Their first year of marriage produced a daughter, Audrey. Five years later, they had a son named Dean. It seemed nearly accidental when Clara came along nearly nine years after that, but they never talked about it like that.

Their home was small and their income meager as Randy pulled hours as a mechanic and moonlit as a repair man. Even May worked some, offering home daycare services and completing small sewing jobs. The family was happy and successful in what they did.

So, when Randy had a dream, a crazy dream for his own business, May listened. His father encouraged him. And the Chicago-bred family uprooted itself and moved across the country to a small town in the middle of nowhere Connecticut. All of Randy's savings went into a down payment on a nice two-story home and a small building just outside the heart of downtown.

The shop was marginally successful, and the family adjusted to its more provincial lifestyle. Audrey had already moved out and was married, settled in a suburb of Chicago. Dean and Clara found new friends and a new life, became as small town as if they'd been born there to begin with.

Finances were tough, and the family sacrificed a lot to keep things afloat. The kids would work for spending money and May took up part-time work herself to make ends meet. Dean was married briefly and divorced before finally heading off to complete school. Apparently, being a mechanic ran in his blood and his degree was evidence enough.

The heart attack Randy suffered was not altogether unpredictable. His father died of the same, years earlier. His younger brother had been monitored consistently for heart irregularities. The timing still hit the family hard, though, and Dean came home to take over the stereo shop, until his father got back on his feet.

Some dreams died hard, though Rory had never realized just how hard until now.

Randy never recovered. Dean would never pursue his dreams. The family was stuck, in limbo, and all Rory could do was write the damn obituary.

-o-

Dean didn't call. It took all Rory's self-control not to call him, and she suddenly understood a younger Dean, calling her time and time again, almost desperately. As if just hearing her voice would make things better. Because she needed to talk to Dean, needed to hear him talk to her, because if he didn't, then the world very well could fall apart on her.

But Dean's reasons were different than hers had been, she knew that. She had just been selfish and young, too exhausted by Dean's tenacity to want to humor him any longer. She'd grown used to him, and then saturated by him, until she just wanted space.

Right now, Rory knew Dean wasn't thinking about Rory. Dean was thinking about his father, his family, and his future. There were plans to make, a father to grieve, and Rory needed to respect that, even if it physically made her ache to do so.

The obituary ran with a picture of Randy. It wasn't one she'd seen, but that didn't surprise her anymore. Like so many other things when it came to Dean, she realized she hadn't really taken the time to pay attention to the details, at least not the ones that didn't pertain to her.

No one praised her for the obituary. There were no effusive comments in the street. In fact, life was more normal than it'd ever been since she'd gotten back, with people going about their business as if nothing had changed.

Which, she supposed, for most of them it hadn't. Small towns liked being each other's business, liked knowing everything about other people. But they didn't like to change for other people. They didn't like to really be there for each other nine times out of ten. It took too much effort, and while Randy Forester may have been liked, he was just this guy who ran a stereo store who lived in a large two-story in a nice part of town. Nothing more, nothing less, and not even Rory's writing could change that.

For the first time, she didn't worry about what that said about her as a writer. She just worried what it said to Dean, to Dean's family, about who they were in this town, about who this town was to them.

It was also the first time she really read what she wrote. Of course, she always read what she wrote, it was an inevitable part of the writing process--prewriting and writing and revision and then going in the cycle again and again. A piece was never _really _done; she just stopped working on it. And with all the repeated viewing of her own words scrawled across the page, she sort of lost the heart to look at it again.

Well, she liked to _look_ at it. She loved seeing her words in print. Tiny, neat characters, lined up because of her, for her, a part of her printed and permanent for the rest of the world to say. Under _her_ name. Yes, she liked how it _looked_. But she never _read_ it.

She let other people do that. She relished the compliments and feared the criticism.

But not this time. This time, public opinion was a moot point.

And this time, she read it.

Her paper was folded open in front of her, creased to the page that had public announcements. Cecil Richards was celebrating his seventy-fifth birthday. Caroline Winstead was turning nine. Keaton Jackson and Lilah Martenson were so very proud to announce their engagement. And Randall Forester, age fifty-four, had died of a massive heart attack caused by a genetic heart defect.

The words were hard to read. Painful, every one. Each black letter somehow suddenly too solid, too unchangeable. How easy it was to forget, sometimes. To forget just what went on beyond the words, how each letter represented something real and true. Usually, it was nothing. A humorous result of a pie-eating contest. The exploits of a crazy, old woman. The personality of a new principal.

Back in Detroit, she'd written about shootings and violence, court cases and appeals. Harder things. Harsher things.

Somehow, this was the worst.

Because she knew the family behind this. She knew the grief. There was no way to capture that. No one to communicate just what a father meant, just what held a family together, just how a family could fall apart. For all her effort, all her commitment to truth and to art and to precision, it all fell short.

She fingered the paper, almost reverently, tracing the lines of her story. It was short--so _short_--and she realized how appropriate that was.

She didn't know how many times she read it, sitting there, a cup of coffee untouched in front of her, her laptop still closed on the table at Luke's. But she read it again and again, until it wasn't her writing, until the words didn't matter, and she wondered if it would ever be okay again.

-o-

She went to the funeral with her mother and Luke. Her mom wore an understated black dress and crossed her legs just like her grandmother would have always wanted. Luke broke out a suit and tie, even left the hat at home, and Rory had to admit he cleaned up nicely.

Her own attire was simple. A gray button-up blouse and a black skirt. She pulled her hair back and sat stiffly in the pew beside her mother.

The turnout was good, she thought, though she was not an experience funeral goer. She'd been to one or two in her life, people she'd barely known, and the only thing she could remember was the way little old women cried into dainty white handkerchiefs as if the world was coming to end.

There was some of that here. But this time, she noticed the somber faces. The straight backs. The oppressive sound of silence that hung over everything the preacher said.

Dean sat with his family in the front. May was stiff in her seat, rigid, and she never seemed to move or to blink. Dean sat next to her, close enough for comfort, but without touching. Next to Dean, Clara sat hunched over. Sobs shook her shoulders every now and then, and Dean's arm lingered on her back, rubbing it when they got bad enough.

Dean's older sister was just beyond Clara, curled up next to her husband, three brown-haired children by their side.

It occurred to Rory she'd never seen them all together. Then she realized she never would.

People talked about how much Randy did for his family. How he was the strong and silent type. How he was an all around good guy who would be missed.

She listened, sometimes glancing over at the open casket with Randy's pale face and folded hands. But more often, she was watching Dean. Between his mother and Clara, strong enough for both of them. It was hard to see her face, but every glimpse she got revealed Dean's set features, pulled tight around his red, damp eyes.

He never cried. He didn't need to. Rory knew he was hurting all the same.

What hurt her most, though, wasn't seeing him upset. It was seeing him so alone. He was there for his mother. He was there for Clara. But who was there for him?

She wished the answer was _her_.

-o-

Her mother and Luke had went out for dinner following the service. They'd invited Rory, but she'd declined. Besides the fact that it would be like acting the part of the third wheel on her mother's date, she didn't really want to talk to them. The questions regarding Dean were too numerous, and she didn't have the patience to sort through what they did know and what they didn't.

More than that, she ached inside. Not that she'd known Randy Forester well, but because it hurt so much to see Dean like that. To know he was hurting.

She needed to do something about that.

What, she wasn't exactly sure. It wasn't her place to stop by at the family's house, not yet, anyway, not when they were likely all gathered there. To mourn. To remember. That was a private thing and Rory wouldn't interrupt that. Not unless she had a casserole to offer, or maybe some pie. Some flowers. Something worthwhile to help them in the days to come.

Despite her success at the recipe corner, she had no such food product. She didn't have the courage either.

Instead, she went for a walk.

Walks were almost peaceful by nature, and when she thought, she was rarely peaceful. She needed purpose, focus, stimulation. A walk seemed to fundamentally lack those things more often than not, which was why she was not prone to them. Besides, wasn't it Scout Finch who had rightfully said that people who just went on a walk for no reason at all were thought to be incapable of finding a reason?

But she had her reasons tonight. There was simply too much right now, and she needed a way to clear her mind, to purge her emotions, or something like that. And so she just kept walking until she found herself walking by the stereo shop.

To be fair, she'd thought it would be empty. Closed. Because it had been Randy's funeral today, so why would the Foresters be thinking about stereos?

While the sign was still turned to _closed_, there was a light inside, in the back, illuminating the counter area and revealing Dean's figure bent over an open pile of papers.

Something tightened in her chest. She was used to an inherent anatomical response to seeing Dean these days--the flush of adrenaline--but not like this. Because to see him in there, slouched over his work, seemed so _wrong_. And sad. Dean had just buried his father and the only thing he could think to do was to come to work?

Some might have found that insensitive. But Rory was pretty sure that wasn't the case here. Dean was internalizing everything, carrying it deep within him, shutting himself off to do the "right thing" for his family, and Rory was pretty certain that this was simply more evidence to support that fact.

She could have walked on. Leave him to grieve (or not so much) in his own way.

But as she watched him, his hand swiping across his eyes from time to time, face drawn, serious, and pale, she knew that she couldn't. It wouldn't be right.

Going to the door, she pushed experimentally on it, almost surprised when it opened.

The ding made Dean look up at her, and Rory could see that he looked worse than she'd thought. Pale and tired and weary beyond his years.

His eyes gave her a momentary sweep before turning back to the paperwork before him, barely pausing to recognize her presence.

She hadn't expected him to be excited to see or anything like that, but she had expected a bit more of a reaction. A bit more of anything. He looked like he was running on empty and she could hardly see any vestige of true emotion. And emotion was something she would expect from someone who had just lost their father.

Making her way to the back of the store, she felt her throat begin to tighten. She wasn't even sure why she was here. The idea of saying something, much less the right thing, was suddenly a daunting task. Perhaps she should have left him alone for tonight--for both their sakes.

Too late to turn back now, though. "Hey," she said.

This time he didn't even look up. "Hey."

"So," she said, trying to smile. "I see you're already back at work."

"Yeah," he said. "We have to make money. This place doesn't run itself."

"You sure you're ready for that?"

Dean looked at her, his brow furrowed. "It's not rocket science," he said, and they both knew that wasn't what she'd meant. A beat passed. "Yeah. I'm ready."

Somehow, Rory doubted that. _Denial, thy name is Dean_.

He was already burrowed back into his paperwork, pencil in one hand, his forehead cradled in the other.

"You okay?" she asked.

Looking up again, he blinked. "Yeah," he said absently. "Just tired. And I've got this headache."

"Did you take something?"

Dean nodded to a bottle of Aleve on the counter. "I can't take anymore for the rest of the night," he said. "Trust me, I'm keeping track."

Somehow, Rory didn't doubt that. "Did you try some tea?" Rory asked. "Sometimes tea helps. Green tea. Something about it is supposed to relax you, I think. That's what my mother always told me and you know my mother. And Luke--Luke's all about tea."

Dean just looked a little perplexed.

She shifted, uncomfortable. She was good at many things, but despite her best efforts, clearly offering compassion wasn't one of them. "She says hi, by the way," Rory added. "Luke, too. If you need anything..." She let it trail off, the offer, she knew, would never be accepted. Not now, anyway. Dean had that blank, stubborn look about him. His grief was still too deep and his denial perhaps too complete.

The moment lapsed and she wondered why she was here. Offering Dean comfort was such a naive goal, noble, perhaps, and it was more than possible she overestimated her role, her relationship with Dean. It hurt to be near him--to see him in so much pain and almost not even be aware of it.

"I saw your piece," Dean said.

"Oh." It wasn't what she wanted to say, but what she wanted to say was a jumbled mess of emotions. She wanted to know if he'd liked it, if she'd done his dad justice, how it made him feel, how it made him feel about _her_, but this wasn't the time, wasn't the place, so _oh_ seemed better than shooting herself in the foot (and Dean through the heart).

"It was good," Dean said, not looking up from his paperwork. "You did your homework. My mom even liked it."

That made Rory smile. "Your mother hates me."

That brought a smile to Dean's face, pausing in his work. "Yeah," he said. "She does. But even she said you can write. The part about my dad's history, where he came from--that was nice. Really nice. Not many people know that about him, you know. About us."

And that was true, too. Stars Hollow knew everything people did. There were no secrets about the ins and outs of life. But the town gossip didn't care about who people were. It just cared about where people were, what they were doing, not what made them who they were. "I'm sorry I never knew before," she said. "I mean, we spent so much time together and sometimes I feel like I never took the time to know you at all."

Dean wasn't totally listening to her, though. He was hearing her words, hearing her speak, but he wasn't catching her reflection, her revelations. Which made sense. This wasn't about her. Now, of all times, this wasn't about her.

He was still leaning over his work, paused though, his pen in hand as if he wasn't sure what he was doing anymore.

She swallowed. "Do you need help with anything? Like with work? Or stocking? I could help stock things. I'd probably even be able to help with like numbers and inventory and stuff because I like things to be organized, but maybe not so much with, like, cash register stuff because money sort of freaks me out sometimes. Too much responsibility or something. I can handle an Ivy League school or a huge paper, but give me money and I feel like pulling my hair out. Not literally because I don't want to be bald, but you get the idea."

It was uncomfortable rambling of the worst kind. She was foisting her own uncertainty all over the place and Dean had looked back up her with a look of complete and utter confusion.

"Uh, no," he said. "I've got it."

He had it, she was sure. But he totally didn't have it. His dad had just died, his mother was a controlling wench, and he looked so _tired_. "Are you sure? I mean, maybe we can take a break or turn on some music."

He scrunched his nose up a little in something that might have been pain and he rolled his shoulders. "I'm good," he said. "Really."

Really, she would have believed him more if he hadn't added the really.

She peered at him closer, more critically, more concerned. Because he _didn't_ look good, not at all. And the more she talked to him, the more pronounced the dark smudges under his eyes were, the more noticeable the pallid tone of his skin was. It wasn't enough to make him look decrepit or anything, but it was a subtle thing, which made it almost more unnerving to her. "Are you sure you're okay?"

This time he glanced up at her, quick and fleeting, but enough to catch her eye. And then she saw it--she saw what he was hiding. There was a dullness in his eyes, a dull emptiness, sort of pervasive and sad.

"Yeah," he said, and Rory knew it was not so much a lie as a complete denial. Dean had no clue if he was okay or not. He was hardly even aware of himself beyond the long list of things he thought he needed to do.

What Dean couldn't see was that he needed her. Okay, so he needed _someone_, and it might as well be her. But she didn't know how. She didn't know how to help him. She'd offered her time, her company, her writing--and Dean was refusing it all. He was being stupid and stubborn and impossible and Rory wasn't sure if she'd ever loved him more.

Not that his need or her love got her anywhere. She was still stuck in neutral when it came to Dean, her wheels spinning aimlessly, waiting on _him_.

Waiting on Dean. That was still a novel concept to her. Waiting on_ anyone_. This wasn't like Jess, who had moved away. It wasn't like Logan, who liked to play his silly little games. It was Dean, right here in front of her, closing himself off tighter and more secure with each passing day.

"Okay," she said with a slight smile. "I'll see you?"

He glanced up, a little distractedly. "What? Yeah, I'll see you," he replied.

Rory lingered a minute longer, hoping for more, knowing it wouldn't come. Dean had turned back to his work, head bowed, and she forced herself to turn around and go home.


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: This is a chapter that anyone who reads my fic often had to know was coming. I make no apologies and am rather gleeful about it all, though it admittedly is still not very happy for our poor characters here. Thanks :) Oh I'll try to do review replies here in a bit--I know I'm slow!

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Morning felt harsh.

Sunlight and warmth, brightness and life. So happy, cheery--all belying the fact that a few blocks toward town, a family was waking up without their father.

That Dean was waking up with a broken heart.

Worse, Dean was waking up with a broken spirit.

That was really what worried her. She'd seen him hurt before--she'd been the reason he'd been hurt before. But this was a different kind of hurt. It was even worse than seeing him in a marriage that didn't make him happy. Even worse than seeing him realize how she was oh-so-subtly ashamed of him.

Sighing, she pulled herself out of bed and dragged herself to the kitchen. She probably needed to go into work this morning, but it didn't seem all that important. Fortunately, being on time would be a moot point; Ned wouldn't notice anyway.

So, it was a perfect morning to wallow a little bit. Not just for herself, but on Dean's behalf.

She had settled at the kitchen table with a bagel when her mother came in.

"You're not dressed," Lorelai observed.

"Very astute of you."

"You're always dressed first," her mother said before opening the fridge and rummaging for the gallon of orange juice.

"Apparently not."

Eyes narrowed, Lorelai extracted the juice and grabbed a glass from the cabinet. "You're messing with my head."

"You're drinking orange juice."

"Because you're not dressed."

"You're drinking orange juice because I'm not dressed?"

"One of us has to be the responsible one, and I guess it's my day."

"You'll get coffee on the way."

"A cup or two. Then more at work," her mother said, sitting down opposite her. "What's wrong?"

"Dean."

"Ah."

"He read the piece."

"And?"

"He said it was good."

"It was a good piece," her mom said. "It was your best piece."

Rory frowned, picking at her half-finished bagel. "It should have been more."

Lorelai's voice was quiet, restrained. Measured. "What do you think it should have been?"

Sighing, Rory abandoned the bagel. "Better," she said. "I mean, how can you put a man's life into an article? How can you summarize a lifetime of dreams and achievement and just _being_? It's like we try to put words on the value of a person and you can never do it, you can never capture just what that person means to others. It's a farce and everyone says it was so beautiful and people turn out for the funeral and they cry and say how great he was but they don't _get _it. No one gets it. Maybe we shouldn't write obituaries at all."

"Honey," her mom ventured. "This isn't about Randy Forester."

She looked hesitantly up at her mother. "Then what is it about?"

Her mother smiled. "It's about Dean."

Rory's chest tightened. "Dean?"

"It's about what it means to Dean," her mom explained. "Not just your obituary, but his father's death. You know how much it hurts him. You see it. You see everything it means to him, about how he wants to be there for his family, about how he looks out for them, and you worry about him. You don't want to write a better obituary, honey, you want to give Dean more than that."

Rory flushed, tears burning behind her eyes. Her mother had an annoying habit of being right, of knowing her better than she knew herself.

"You can't force this kind of thing," Lorelai continued. "Trust me, I've tried. And I've got the screwed up relationships to show for it. I mean, you're looking at the woman who barely had communication with her parents for years on end. The one who seems incapable of walking down the aisle and when she does--don't even get me started. Things aren't like we want them to be. Not like they are on TV or in movies or whatever. It's just reality, you know? Like the screwed up way communication works--by _not_ doing it half the time. Half-conversations. Forced smiles. Unfinished thoughts. That's the way it is. For two people to be in tandem--well, if you ever get there, honey, let me know. And never walk away. Until then...until then we do the next best thing."

Rory chewed her bottom lip, fingers tracing her napkin. "And what's the next best thing?"

"We write the best damn obituaries we can and try to put ourselves in someone else's shoes and hope it pays off."

"And if it doesn't?"

Her mother shrugged, picking up her own bagel. "Then at least we learned something about the other person," she said. "And, Rory, you do know how much that obituary meant, don't you?"

"To Dean?"

"To everyone," she said. "There's good writing and then there's being a good person. You managed to do both."

Ducking her head, Rory sighed. "And what's that worth?"

"Well, let's just say if someone had to write your obituary, they'd come up with a lot of good things to say."

Rory looked at her mother. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"What? It's a compliment."

"You're thinking about my _obituary_?"

Lorelai rolled her eyes. "You're missing the point."

"I need to start locking my bedroom door, don't I?"

"I can get in through the window."

"Isn't that illegal?"

"In my own house?"

Rory scowled. She could be an adult--sure. But that didn't mean she always had to be. "And you wonder why you never manage to walk down the aisle and make it stick. You're too busy penning your own obituary to worry about your vows."

"And you think I'm morbid."

Picking up her bagel, Rory took a small bite. "Well, they say the apple never falls far from the tree."

"They also say that mother knows best."

Rory shook her head with a roll of her eyes. "And what do _they_ know anyway?"

"Well, _they_ think you should go talk to Dean."

This made Rory pause, mid-chew. "And why do _they_ think that?"

"_They_ think that perhaps what Dean needs more than anything is a friend."

"Again, I ask, what are _they_ basing this on?"

"On the fact that Dean's father just died. On the fact that he just had every single family responsibility dumped on him. On the fact that this is a load that no one should ever have to bear, much less when you're twenty-seven and had every chance in the world to make yourself happy and suddenly you have to turn you back on it."

"Well, _they_--"

"Rory," her mother interjected.

"What?"  "Enough with _them_. This is about you. And Dean. You and Dean."

"I _tried_," she said. "I've talked to him. He doesn't want to talk."

"Rory," her mother said, leveling her with a knowing stare. "Dean is a _guy_. Guys never _want_ to talk. Guys never want to touch emotions with a ten foot pole even in the best if circumstances. Well, outside of like sports or something, anyway. Then they can get all giddy and excited and slap each other in the butt and it's all gravy. But in all other areas of life, emotions and talking is something they just can't conceptualize. Doesn't mean they don't _need_ it."

These were things Rory knew, even the sports part. What she didn't know was how that applied to _her_. "And what am I going to do about it?"

"Be the best friend you can be," Lorelai said. "Go to him, talk to him, try to get him to do things. Basically coerce him into talking without him even knowing it. Use your womanly virtues to trick and manipulate. We're not girls for nothing."

"Trick and manipulate?"

Her mother shrugged. "It's all for a good cause."

"Very Machiavellian of you."

"Eh, I'm more of an _it's better to be loved by my many subjects_ type."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Yeah, well, keep it in mind as you go talk to Dean."

"Yes, I'm sure your anti-Machiavellian ways will be quite useful when I talk to him," Rory said. "I'm not sure how, but you know. I'll figure it out."

"There you go," her mother said. "Now go! Do your thing!"

Rory rolled her eyes and pushed herself to her feet. "Going, going," she said. "But you know, if you want me to love you, you may want to be less demanding."

"Well, if you can't woo them, you demand their love."

"Then would it really be love?"

"Do you know what happens to rebellious subjects?"

"They're subjected to long talks about nothing?"

"Exactly."

Rory smiled. "I'm going."

And she was gone before her mother could reply.

-o-

Machiavelli had known that life was usually business before pleasure. It wasn't fun, of course, but that Machiavelli certainly understood the way life was.

Besides, she needed some time. There was so much to say to Dean, so much to talk about, and she needed to gather herself, to really think about it before she went spouting off and saying something utterly stupid and ruining it all. She didn't have the best track record, after all.

Too bad she wasn't coming up with anything. She knew she wanted to tell Dean how sorry she was--not like everyone else, but how deeply and truly she ached for him. Because it was hard seeing him in pain.

It was hard because Rory was pretty sure she loved him.

_She loved him_.

She loved him and she wanted better for him. She wanted him to be happy, she wanted him to get a job working with cars, not just part-time, but as a career. She wanted him to go places and to do things and she didn't know how to tell him.

By the time the evening rolled around, she realized that there was only one way to say it: that was just to say it.

Rather simplistic in the end, but she'd spent too much time beating around the bush. It was time to lay it all out on the table, take that risk, and see what happened.

She was sure Machiavelli would approve.

By the time she'd reached that realization, it was dark and she knew the shop was closed. Which was better. Then, there'd be no customers, no coworkers. Just Dean.

The door was still unlocked and though main lights were off, she could easily see Dean bathed in the light behind the counter.

Taking a deep breath, she went inside.

He glanced up briefly before burying himself back in his work. "Hi," he said.

"Hi," she replied, easing herself up to the counter. "Hard at work, I see."

"There's always something," Dean murmured. "I've got to get the numbers down for the next shipment and we've got a mortgage payment coming up so I have to make sure the right funds are transferred."

"Sounds very business-like."

"That's the idea."

He sounded tired. He sounded bad. He looked bad. She licked her lips, hedging carefully. "Maybe you need a break," she suggested.

"There's hardly time."

"You can make time."

Dean sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. "Look, Rory, I know what you're trying to do--"

"No, you don't," she said.

He looked up at her, confused. "What?"

"I mean, I don't think you know what I'm trying to do."

"I don't?"

"No. I mean. I just want you to take a break, go out with me--"

"I don't have _time _tonight," he said. "I've got be sure we've got enough liquid assets--"

"I'm pretty sure the liquid assets can wait," Rory cajoled. "Come on, the night is beautiful and--"

"The night's always beautiful," he sighed. "And this can't wait."

"There will always be work--"

"Exactly," Dean interjected harshly. He gathered a measured breath. "I just need to do this, okay?"

"You're working yourself too hard," Rory said, feeling her own frustrations rise. There were things they needed to do, things she needed to say, and he wasn't making this easier for her. He wasn't making it easier for either of them.

"I'm doing what I have to do."

"No, you're being ridiculous."

He looked up, his brow creased and his eyes flashed with hurt, which gave way to a defensiveness that Rory recognized. "I'm being ridiculous?"

"No, I mean--you just need to take a break, okay?"

"Rory, what do you want from me?" Dean demanded, his voice strained, more tired than angry. He rubbed his chest, wincing a little. "What do you think I can do for you?"

"You can live your life," Rory shot back. "Live it for _you_. Live up to your potential. Dean, you went to school after all that time, you did what most people will _never_ do, and you did it so well. You can't have worked so hard for a new future to settle for _this_."

Hurt flashed in his eyes. "This, Rory, is all I _can_ do."

"You need to stop keeping yourself in a box," she said. "I _know_ you can do better. Dean, you graduated with high distinction in your class. You had some of the most prestigious internships you could possibly have. And I know you turned down job opportunities at some of the best car companies in the country . You _can_ do more, so I don't know why you're tying yourself to a place you don't even want to be."

"Because it's not about what I want!" he exploded at her. "There are a million things _I _want, but what about what my family _needs_? What about them, huh? What about my dad who put his entire life into this place? What about my mom who practically had to quit her job trying to nurse him back to health? What about the mortgage on the house? The car payments? The funeral expenses? What about keeping my family afloat? What about Clara's college plans? What about _all _of that, Rory? Am I supposed to say, oh, too bad, tough luck? Well, I can't do that. This is my _family_. They come first. They have to, because if I don't put them first, then who will?"

His speech stunned her, shocked her. Things she'd known, on some level, things that everyone had to know. But not things she'd thought about--not like that. Because the world didn't depend on her like that. Her family didn't need her to be anyone but herself. It had never occurred to her how much of a privilege that was. "Dean--"

"No, Rory," he said, turning away. "I can't do this with you anymore. I can't sit here and pretend like we can make something work out, like I even _want _it. Because all you do to me, all you do is confuse me. Get my hopes up, make me feel like other things could happen, just to let me down. You and I, we were never compatible. It was all just teenage love, pipe dreams, and I can't _afford_ that risk now. Okay? I can't."

"Dean," she tried again, trailing after him, putting a hand on his arm. "Please."

He turned toward her now, his eyes shining. "Please what, Rory? Please stay? Please make you happy? Please be your boyfriend when you need one and please don't cry when you need to move on? Please be more so I might be good enough for you for a little bit? Well, I'm sorry, Rory. I may always love you, but _you_ don't need me. My family does. I need to--I need to--"

He had gone pale and Rory suddenly noticed a fine sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"Dean?" she asked, a little tentative now, her concern mounting.

He gasped, stumbling a little bit, catching himself with one hand on the counter while the other went to his chest.

"Dean, are you okay?" she asked again, more urgently now, moving closer to him.

Eyes squeezed shut, he seemed to be trying to pull himself together. "I...I...hurts...God, Rory...," he tried to say between gasps.

The color had drained from his face now and his eyes were wide and panicked as he seemed to stagger forward more.

"Whoa," Rory said, putting a hand out to catch him. "Do you think maybe we should sit down? You know, try to--"

He blinked rapidly, his breathing taking on a grating tone. "I just can't do it anymore," he heaved and then, without any more warning, his eyes rolled up in his head and his knees buckled as he pitched forward, crumbling to the ground with a ferocity that Rory could not keep up with.

It was all she could do to slow his descent, throwing herself in front of him as his heavy body slumped down against her. She couldn't stop it--she didn't have the time or the physical presence--but she did cushion him before he hit the ground with a muted thud. Her arms protested with the load, but she only carried it briefly until she found herself flat on her bottom, Dean limp in front of her.

She supposed she should feel grateful that he passed out _there_; of all the places he could have passed out in the store, next to the counter was really probably ideal. Because if Dean had gone down in the aisles, there would have been too much Dean in too little space, and worse, Dean probably would have hit a lot more than Rory on the way down.

But it wasn't like this was good on any level. Because Dean had just passed out in front of her and was currently sprawled, face down on the floor.

"Dean?" she asked, her own panic fully going now. "Dean?"

Her fingers hovered above his head, trying to look more clearly into his face, which was partially obscured by his hair. She loved his hair, she _really _did, but it was getting shaggy, in need of a cut, and that wouldn't have been such a big deal if she hadn't been desperately trying to figure out if he was okay. If he was even still _alive_ for that matter. Because he'd just passed out face-first in the stereo shop that was now apparently his and Rory didn't know what to do.

Yale educated, real world experienced, and she didn't know what to do. Because she was a _journalist_, not a doctor, not a nurse, and quite frankly, journalists didn't deal with people passing out on a daily basis, especially not would-be boyfriends who were completely screwed up by the fact that his father just died due to a genetic heart condition.

Genetic heart condition.

It couldn't...

Could it?

Her breath caught in her throat as she smoothed his hair back. "Dean?" she called. "Dean!"

There was a twitching. Twitching was good, right? Twitching was better than stillness because to twitch, one had to be alive, therefore if Dean were twitching, Dean had to be alive and that was a _good_ thing.

"Dean?" she tried again, leaning closer now. "Sweetie, wake up."

He twitched again, his face contorted into a grimace as he stirred.

In fact, he was more than stirring, he was trying to push himself up. That grimace was still there, marring his features, and his eyes were scrunched tight against a pain Rory couldn't place.

"Dean? Are you okay?"

He managed to prop himself up, halting with gasping breaths, before he rolled himself over into a semi-sitting position. She sidled in closer, positioning herself partly behind him and she was scared when he sagged against her, seeming not to know he was doing it. "Rory?" he finally asked, but his voice was small, garbled--not at all right.

"You passed out," she said stupidly because she couldn't think of anything else to say. After all, what should she say? It didn't seem appropriate to start talking to him about the relative quality of truth and responsibility because that kind of thing really required two _coherent _parties, or one coherent party and one Gilmore and she was pretty sure that Dean was short up on the coherent part.

Sure, his eyes were open now, blinking lazily as he tried to move. Where or why, she wasn't sure, but maybe his machismo was kicking back in.

Then he groaned again, his hand going again to his chest, rubbing it with a consistency that suddenly freaked Rory out.

"You know what?" she said. "I'm going to call for help. Okay? We'll get an ambulance with paramedics and they'll know what to do and it will be just fine, okay?"

She hadn't been really talking to him so much as talking about him or near him. Because, really, did semi-conscious people get a vote in things like this?

Apparently, Dean thought they did. "No," he gasped, his other hand grasping at her leg. "No hospital. Not this time."

This time? As opposed to all the other times he went to the hospital?

"Not this summer," he said again, muttering more now, like his awareness was waning yet again.

It didn't even _matter _what that meant because he was growing heavy in her arms again and he was rubbing his chest and his father had just died from a genetic heart problem and there was no _way_ she was going to take this chance.

"Easy," she said, as soothingly as she could, though she doubted she was successful. She didn't have a bad voice, but a comforting one, definitely not. With her free hand, she groped blindly for her bag. "Just don't worry about it, okay?"

Her fingers closed around the strap just as Dean fidgeted a little again, nearly jarring himself from her grip, which wouldn't take much if she thought about it as Dean was a human version of a Sasquatch and she was just Rory Gilmore.

"Rory?" he asked. He sounded young and confused and Rory felt her own chest tighten.

Digging one handed through her bag, her fingers brushed plastic and she pulled out the phone, flipping it open. "Yeah," she said, trying to sound calm because she wasn't going to _be_ calm at this point, but she didn't figure panicking would really help Dean no matter what reasons he had for passing out and twitching.

He seemed to be waiting until her eyes found his and they were full and wet. "I'm sorry," he said, and a tear slipped from one of his eyes, trailing down his cheek. "I'm so, so sorry."

Just like that, she couldn't breathe and she thought she might pass out on the floor right next to Dean. Because Dean was lying there, limp and twitching, and practically saying _goodbye_.

"Hey," she said. "What's to be sorry for? It's not like you _wanted_ to take that nosedive to the floor and I know that, so I'm not going to be--Dean--Dean!"

But he was drifting off, his eyelids closing so slowly that it hurt, and the moment they shut, the tension left his body and Rory nearly dropped him again.

"Dean!" she called, desperately now, because she needed Dean. She _loved_ Dean. And she wasn't going to sit here and just watch him _die_.

Her fingers were shaking and her eyes were blurred with tears, but she managed to dial those three numbers all the same.


	23. Chapter 23

A/N: This is chapter may be a bit gratuitous but that's just the way I roll. Poor Rory is still in the dark so sadly the readers will be, too, but we'll find out what happened to poor Dean in a bit :) Thanks!

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Rory had dealt with medical emergencies before. The first had been her grandfather. She could still remember the look of controlled and horrifying pain on his face before they'd called for help. But the entire time, her grandfather had been posturing, her grandmother had been demanding, and it had seemed like everything that could be done, was being done.

Logan's medical crisis had been more unnerving to say the least, because she hadn't known the details, but she'd been able to sit next to him, to see the steady rise and fall of his chest, and that had been more than vaguely reassuring.

And she hadn't been alone either time. There'd been other people there, people to support her. People to help her.

This time, it was only her. Her and Dean, and Dean certainly wasn't going to be much help.

His body was hot and heavy and still, and when the flashing lights came from outside, Rory couldn't move. She heard the distant call of voice and yelled, "In here! We're in here!"

Her voice sounded stretched and strained and _loud,_ but Dean didn't move. The twitching was gone now, and his head turned loosely toward her, his dark hair brushing along his face.

"Ma'am?" someone asked, and Rory looked up to see a gentle-faced man, probably her mom's age, with graying hair and laugh lines around his eyes. "You called for help?"

The other one, a younger woman, had eased up next to her, finger already gloved and reaching toward Dean.

"Yes," Rory said. "He just...passed out."

"I'm Keith," the guy said, kneeling down on the side of her. "And that's my partner, Christa. Can you tell me what happened?"

Christa was examining Dean now, her hands probing his face, finding his pulse.

"We were talking and he was upset and...and he just passed out," Rory tried to explain, trying to find more meaning to it, trying to find a reason why. "He said it hurt."

Christa muttered something about a pulse rate, then looked fully at Rory. "Has he been conscious?"

Rory nodded. "Yes. He came to and tried to stand up. That's how we ended up like this. I didn't think you were supposed to move people after they passed out and stuff so I didn't but he did and then he passed out like this and now I really can't move because, well, he's a lot bigger than me."

Keith smiled lightly. "Well, we need to get him on the ground so we can look at him better, okay?" he asked.

There was nothing to do but nod and Rory was pretty sure they would have moved him with or without her tenuous consent. Christa was holding some kind of neck brace, the kind that was always on television, and as Keith reached in, supporting Dean's head and back, Christa slide the brace around, securing it with Velcro before together they lowered him to the ground next to Rory.

Dean's weight was gone, but Rory still couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but stare.

Christa immediately went back to work, pulling out a penlight and leaning over Dean again.

"Did he complain of any _specific_ pain?" Keith probed. "Any odd behavior?"

"His chest," she managed to say. "He kept rubbing his chest."

Keith's brow furrowed a little and Christa put the penlight away. "Pupils equal and reactive," she said quietly. "I'm going to start an IV line."

"Does he have any family history of heart problems?" Keith asked.

Of course he asked it. It made perfect sense to ask it. Dean had been rubbing his chest, and he was still young and healthy, so the logical question was _does he have any family history_. But it was also the question Rory didn't want to answer. Because the answer wasn't good. Wasn't at all what she wanted to think about. If she could just _not_ say it, then maybe it wasn't true. But Dean was unconscious and pale and she couldn't afford_ not_ to answer. "His dad just died of a heart attack," she said, her throat tight. "Some kind of genetic heart condition, he said. That's why he was so upset. He's been really stressed out lately."

Christa and Keith exchanged a look, brief but there, and Rory felt herself start to panic.

"But he's only twenty-seven," she said. "It couldn't be something like that. Could it? I mean, he's young and he's healthy. I promise, he works out like every day of the week and he eats right. Maybe a little too much coffee but wheat bagels. He eats wheat bagels and low-fat cream cheese. So he's got to be okay. Right?"

Rory blinked furiously, her eyes burning, as she looked from one EMT to the other. Christa had busied herself with the IV line, sliding it into the crook of Dean's arm.

It was Keith who took pity on her. "We're going to take him to the hospital and get him checked out, okay?" he said. "There's not much sense worrying yourself too much until then."

"But what's wrong with him?" she pressed. Because there was clearly something wrong with him. Healthy, cute boys didn't just keel over for no good reason. Nor did they remain unconscious for extended periods of time or receive IV lines and have paramedics ask questions about a history of heart disease.

Christa was getting a board, presumably to carry Dean with, and all Rory could think was how ridiculous that was. Dean was far too large for it, and he was surely far too heavy, but then again, paramedics were trained for this kind of thing.

"Right now, hard to say," Christa said, laying the board out next to Dean. "We're just getting him hydrated and we'll monitor his heart rate on the way to the hospital. Precautionary stuff."

Even in her state of quasi-hysteria, Rory could tell when she was being placated. And if she'd ever been placated,it was now. She was often placated, she found, by her mother, by her friends, by whatever significant other she happened to be with at the time. She supposed it was a natural side-effect of her effusively conversational nature. Sometimes, people just wanted her to _be quiet_, but saying _be quiet_ was probably a little curt, and those who cared about her didn't want to be curt with her because, well, curtness did not breed fondness.

Christa may not have been concerned with developing a fondness with Rory, but she certainly didn't want Rory in full-on panic mode.

So Rory understood Christa's benign attempts, but she did not want them. At all.

Though to be fair, she didn't want the truth either. She wanted Dean to be okay. There was no other option, so why did she have to entertain any?

If only she could think of some way to let them _know_ that. To say anything remotely intelligent. What did people say on TV when in this kind of situation? Surely she could think of something? Right?

Apparently not. She merely watched as they transferred Dean to the too-small board, lifting it efficiently to the stretcher they'd wheeled in initially. Throughout it all, Dean didn't move. He was secured, it was true, with the brace, and now he was hooked up to the IV which seemed to tangle around him quite effectively, so really movement wasn't ideal, especially since rolling would probably send him sprawling to the ground and, really, he'd already done that enough tonight.

"We're going to take him to Hartford. You can meet us there."

She could, she supposed, but she had to remember how to think first, how to function, how to do anything but stare, the image of Dean's unmoving body etched into her mind.

-o-

She had no idea how long it took for her mother to get there. She didn't even really remember her mother arriving or how her mother got her out of the shop. All she could remember was standing at the door, looking in at the empty store, the empty counter and saying, "We need to lock it."

Her mother's hand was around her shoulder. "Sweetie, I think we need to go."

"He wouldn't leave it unlocked," Rory said again, more insistent now. "That's not the kind of guy he is. He's responsible."

Her mother seemed to sigh a little, but whatever comment she had in mind, she kept to herself. "Do you know where the keys are?"

Rory just shook her head.

Rubbing her arm, Lorelai just said, "Okay. Just give me a second. I'll be right back."

With that, she was gone. Rory didn't know where. She didn't know why. She didn't care. All she could see was Dean behind the counter, bent over that book. She could see the lines creasing his forehead, the pale cast to his face, and how hard she'd wanted him to get away.

He was away. Just not at all like she'd wanted. She wanted anything but this.

Because he'd passed out cold, he'd had chest pains and the medics kept asking her questions about a family history of heart disease.

Her mother made her presence known again with a gentle touch on her arm. "I've got the neighbors watching it until Gilbert gets here, okay?"

Rory just nodded. It wasn't okay. Nothing was okay.

"Do you want to go try to see him?" her mom asked. "See if he's okay?"

And Rory nodded again.

-o-

The trip to Hartford took thirty minutes.

It had always taken thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to Chilton. Thirty minutes to her grandparents. Thirty minutes to the great world beyond Stars Hollow.

Thirty minutes.

This time, she felt every second. Felt it like the beat of her heart. Saw it like the look of pain on Dean's face. Heard it like the strain in his voice. Knew it like the sure sound of sirens in the night.

Thirty minutes.

Her mother drove, fast and silence, and Rory felt frozen. She couldn't move. Couldn't even look away, even though she wasn't looking at anything.

Thirty minutes away from Dean. Thirty minutes wondering how Dean was, if Dean was okay. Thirty minutes of questions, of answers she didn't want to know.

Thirty minutes of her life. Thirty minutes of Dean's life. Thirty minutes that couldn't go fast enough and that were passing far too quick.

-o-

It was Clara she found.

The girl was huddled in a chair, looking thin and frail and young--far from the bright, spirited softball player Rory had been reacquainting herself with just days before.

That made sense. It really did. Because Clara had lost her father, and now she was sitting in the same hospital, waiting for word on Dean. And Rory may not have known Clara all that well, but one thing she did know, one thing that anyone knew just from seeing them together, was that Clara adored her brother, maybe more than anyone else.

Lorelai was parking the car, and Rory went straight to Clara, not just because the girl looked too desolate for words, but also because Clara would know _something_. Hospital staff could be quite annoying when it came to releasing information. As Rory was not even quite a girlfriend to Dean, she doubted she would gain much info. Therefore, comforting Clara was not purely altruistic.

Clara didn't even look up until Rory was sitting next to her, a hand on her shoulder. "Hey," she said.

The girl jerked, swallowing reflexively. "Rory," she said. Then realization widened her hazel eyes. "You were there. That's what they said, that he was with one of his friends, and Dean doesn't have any friends right now but you."

Rory flinched a little, though she tried not to. "Yeah," she said. "Is there any word?"

Clara looked like she didn't hear her. "What happened? They called and said Dean was here and all my mother would tell me was something about scans for his chest." The kid sounded beyond terrified.

Her own need to know was one thing. But leaving Clara high and dry certainly wouldn't help either of them. Besides, Rory had some emotional stagnancy, but she wasn't a cold-hearted wench. "He...he just sort of passed out," she said, and knew suddenly that her compassion wasn't going to come out very compassionately at this rate. How would she soften what she knew? When what she knew was the reason Clara was so freaked out in the first place? "I mean, we were talking about stuff and he was getting upset and then he sort of rubbed his chest and went down. I called for help and he was awake for some of it. I don't know much else."

Clara seemed to be watching her, waiting for more. "Did he say anything? I mean, what did the paramedics say?"

"I don't know," Rory said, all too aware that she had to be the adult this time (another very foreign concept). "But that's why we're here, right? To figure that out?"

Though Clara nodded, Rory was pretty sure the younger girl didn't quite believe her. Not that Rory could blame her. Rory took comfort better than she gave it, and the simple fact of the matter was, that she was just as scared as Clara was. "He's my brother, you know?" Clara said, looking at her hands. "Dean's always been there for me. The one thing I always needed. Most big brother hate having little sisters. But Dean never made me feel like that. Throughout everything, he's always been there for me. And now with Dad, I mean, I just don't think, I mean--"

Rory tightened her hand on Clara's shoulder. "Don't think like that," she said. "We just need to wait and see what's going on with him. Okay?"

Again, Clara nodded, chewing on her lip before glancing up at Rory. Her eyes were rimmed red and wet. "I'm glad you're here," she said. "He would want you here."

Rory tried to smile. The sentiment was sweet and far too sincere. Especially since Clara didn't know. Didn't know what they'd been fighting about. What they'd been going back and forth about. How it could have been somewhat her fault--for pushing him, for upsetting him, for just not getting it.

It came to her with sudden clarity, the clarity she usually reserved for critically analyzing Chaucer or Machiavelli or something from the Enlightenment. The clarity she used when writing an article, when sifting through the facts to get through the opinions, get through the mud and mire of what people feel, to the heart of the matter. The clarity she could afford in any academic or professional situation.

The clarity she never had with people or with feelings or with love.

The clarity that told her that she'd always loved Dean for what he represented: the first boyfriend, the perfect boyfriend. The clarity that told her maybe she'd never loved him for who he was, for what he really wanted. Not because they weren't compatible, not because he wasn't the "right fit" but because she'd never taken more than two seconds to think about him in that way, never taken the time to really know Dean for who he was and not just know him as an extension of who she was, who she wanted him to be in her life.

Clara had encouraged her in that. Still was. But Clara wanted it for Dean's sake.

Rory wanted it for hers.

And there was that clarity, that sudden radical paradigm shift when she wondered why she was here. That maybe Dean wouldn't care one way or the other if she was here, but she was here anyway. And she would stay. For her own sake. For her own need to know. For her own need for _him_.

She couldn't be sure it was love. She wasn't sure it mattered. She would have to talk to him to know. She would have to really _listen_ to him to find out.

The only way of doing that, the only chance she had, was to stay. Stay right where she was and pray that her luck could hold out just a little longer.

-o-

By the time May Forester emerged from the bowels of the hospital, Rory had to admit, she looked terrible. Her face was nearly gaunt, pale and drawn with deep worry lines that Rory hadn't seen before. She looked bedraggled, hair scraggly and unkempt, eyes bloodshot and disturbingly dry.

Her own mother had arrived at that point, taking up residence on the chair next to Rory, flipping through a magazine and attempting to make small talk. Clara had reciprocated some, and Rory had been grateful for Lorelai. The woman could be impossible and difficult, but she had a soft heart when she needed it, and Rory wondered if she'd missed out on that sensitivity gene at conception.

May gave a look to her mother and another one to her, but she didn't ask them to leave. Instead, she stood in front of Clara, hands clasped tight in each other.

Clara stood, jittering and wide-eyed. "How is he?"

"He's okay," May said, but her voice sounded funny. Maybe a little broken. "He's been awake and I've talked to him. They're still running tests, but they think they can rule out a heart attack."

Clara let out a shaking breath that sounded like a sob. Rory realized she hadn't been breathing and felt her mother's hand on her arm.

"They said he was dehydrated," May continued. "Probably hadn't been drinking or eating enough. Lord knows I've been too busy to keep track of it."

Rory clenched her teeth. May's self-deprecation seemed weak and hollow, but Rory couldn't keep her own guilt from roiling through her stomach. She'd wanted to give Dean his space, to let him handle it. That would have been well and good if Dean had been _capable_ of handling it. His father had _died_. He was falling apart. And she tried to give him space and instead, he'd neglected himself.

"So they've got him on some IVs and he's come around," May explained, looking only at Clara.

"What about his chest?" Clara prompted. "Rory said he was rubbing his chest."

At this, May spared Rory a glance, baneful and deadened. "They're looking into it, dear," she said. "Would you like to go see him? He's awake and feeling rather ridiculous about it all. He asked for you."

Clara nodded eagerly. "Can Rory come?"

May's lips flattened out, pressed firmly together. "Maybe in a bit," May said. "They want family for now."

Clara looked down at Rory. "I'll tell him you're here," she said. "I'm sure they'll let you into see him. You're practically his girlfriend."

"Clara--"

"She could have saved his life," Clara said to her mother. "If Dean had been alone..."

"Hush," her mother said. "Let's go see your brother."

May was walking away and Clara cast her one last look, apologetic and grateful and terrified all at once. "I'll let you know as soon as I know anything," she promised, trailing after her mother.

Rory could only nod and her mom's hand tightened again.

"He'll be okay, you know," Lorelai said as Clara and May disappeared down the hall.

"What makes you so sure?"

"Well," her mother said. "It is hard to be _sure_ sure, but Dean has an affinity for hospital trips. And he turns out fine every time. In fact, he turns out better than ever. He should really try to market that--he could make a killing on self-help books. Improve your life through hospital stays."

Rory couldn't joke though. She'd been there. She'd seen him go down. She could still hear that question: _does he have any family history of heart problems_?

"Hey," her mom said, looping an arm around her back. "No reason to get scared just yet, okay?"

"You weren't there," Rory said numbly. "You weren't there."

Her mother sighed, pulling her close and planting a kiss on her head. "No," she said. "No, I wasn't. But I'm here now. And we're not going anywhere. None of us."

Platitudes, maybe. Cliches, definitely. But reassuring--well, as much as anything could. It was all Rory could do: sit there, in that crappy waiting room, her mother by her side, and the lingering image of Dean's pale, pain-stricken face.

She'd never been so scared before. Not even with her grandfather. Not even with Logan. This time, she'd been there. This time, she'd seen it happen. This time, she had no way of knowing if she'd ever get to tell him how she really felt. If he'd ever feel the same.


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: Rory has a bit of reflection in this chapter and then next chapter we'll find out more about what's going on with Dean. This chapter does reference some of the earlier fics in the series, so if you're not familiar with them, some of this may seem a bit out of left field. My continued thanks to my steady readers!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

It seemed to take hours.

Looking at her watch told Rory that _hours_ was a bit melodramatic. It had been exactly one hour and fifteen minutes, but there was no doubt that it did indeed feel like hours. Her backside had gone from sore to numb, and her back felt stiff in the chair.

Lorelai had taken to slouching, her eyes blinking somewhat drowsily on and off. She called Luke once, moving to the other side of the waiting room to talk to him in hushed tones.

Rory didn't even have the energy to speculate on the conversation. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Not her mother and Luke, not her career, not her grandparents' money, not the oddly clashing chairs in the waiting room. Nothing. Just Dean.

She remembered doing this. This worrying. This sense that there was something wrong and she had no control over it. This awful feeling of helplessness, of complete and total inability. Because Rory believed in doing things. She believed in making her way through life. She'd studied and worked and gotten ahead in Chilton, into Yale, into every opportunity in life. That wasn't fate, it couldn't be. Because fate was chance and there was very little in life that Rory truly left up to the universe to decide.

But maybe fate was all that other stuff. The stuff she had no say in.

That was the stuff she hated. The stuff of other people's feelings, of worldwide actions. The stuff of waiting rooms and ambulances and the people she cared about being at the mercy of their own biology.

It was unsettling, to say the least.

Terrifying.

When the doctor asked for the family of Dean Forester, her first impulse was to get up, to rush to him and ask what was wrong.

But May beat her to it, standing in front of the doctor, hands intertwined, chewing her bottom lip nervously.

That's when Rory realized that the doctor had asked for _family_.

Rory was nothing more than a friend.

She shrunk back into her seat, wishing she could disappear. Her mother didn't move next to her, a steady, unwavering presence, the only thing that seemed to be keeping her from slinking right off that chair into oblivion.

What was she doing here? The awful truth came to her with a sickening clarity. She _needed_ to know what was wrong with Dean. Not just because she'd been there when he collapsed (which, okay, yeah, was an image she needed to rectify with seeing him _okay_), but because she wanted to be more. She wanted to be _family_ with him.

That alone was nearly the most terrifying thought. Family. And she sure wasn't thinking about him being a brother.

In all her neurotic fantasies, the classic little girl dream of a wedding hadn't really been one she'd been prone to. No white organza, no gold-tipped white roses. She'd sometimes worn her pillowcase on her head, but usually that was just to pretend that she had even longer hair.

No, her fantasies were of her own success, her ambition, not her domestic livelihood. It wasn't like she had any examples of that to look up to. Her mother had raised her on her own. Her father was a bachelor. Even her married grandparents were rather cosmopolitan in a way. Why would she have dreams of being a happy little homemaker? She'd positively scoffed at Dean's Donna Reed fantasy and she'd had to bear the brunt of her mother jokes about it for weeks when she'd given in and humored him.

Not that she hadn't thought about it at all. Logan had _asked_ after all, with a very pretty ring (too pretty, maybe--with a rock that big dangling off her finger she was bound to get caught on _everything_). And part of her had wanted to say yes.

But it wasn't the same. She'd wanted to say yes so she wouldn't lose Logan. But she hadn't wanted to say yes enough to give up her own thing.

And now here she was, back home, wanting to be _family_ with Dean Forester.

Life was just too confusing.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Clara, who was suddenly standing in front of her. For a second, Rory wondered if she'd somehow zoned out, but then she realized that Clara had gone with her mother and come back. "Mom made me talk to the doctor first," she said, fidgeting a little. "It's just...confusing. I mean, medical stuff I just don't get. Mom's already seen him, but she's going to let me go in now. I'll let you know what's up when I get back. Okay?"

Rory nodded, trying to smile. "Okay," she said.

Clara returned the smile.

"Thanks," Rory said before Clara turned away. Because Clara didn't owe her that. Clara didn't owe her anything. Rory was the girl who had broken her brother's heart, so it just occurred to Rory that she was lucky for this in at all.

Clara just nodded. "That whole family thing," she said. "It's just a technicality. I'm sure Dean will want to see you soon enough."

Rory could only hope.

-o-

When her mother shoved a cup of coffee in her face, Rory realized that she hadn't even seen her disappear.

"You look like a zombie," her mother said. "You really should sleep but since that would require forcibly dragging you off the premises I figured I might as well just fuel the beast so, you know, you're a little less of a zombie and more of a reanimated corpse."

Rory accepted the coffee. "Thanks."

Her mother settled next to her again. "Wow, just a _thanks_? No comment on how reanimated corpses would actually be less attractive than zombies?"

"Depends how fresh the corpse was."

"Ah, so you're not quite completely zombified," her mother said, taking a sip of her own coffee. "You haven't heard or seen from Clara again yet? Or the wonder-mother May?"

Rory shook her head. "Not yet."

"Knowing May, she's just taking her own sweet time," her mother said. "And who does she think she is? His mother?" 

Rory didn't laugh. She couldn't. "What if there's a problem?"

"Honey, there's not a problem."

"We're in a hospital."

"Yes, but that's all there is. You'll see. Dean's going to be fine."

"You don't know that."

"And you don't know it either," her mother pointed out with finality. "Besides, I've been here before."

Rory was too tired to give a polite what. Instead, she glowered at her mother.

"Dean does have a nice habit of ending up here," she said. "I'm sure you've heard."

"Maybe, but what does that have to do with you?"

"Well, I came with him once," Lorelai said, like Rory should already know.

But Rory didn't know. She should have, but she didn't and she was far too tired for this. "Did you just stop communicating with me while I was gone?"

"Yeah, those daily phone calls made it kind of hard to _not_ be in touch with you."

"So why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it didn't come up?"

"How could it not come up?"

"Because it was a long day and I had to sit in the hospital and then I had to go and explain it all to Luke and then I had to explain it to Taylor who had heard it from Kirk and then I had to ask Taylor to talk to Kirk about no more testing of motorized bikes and there was this long debate about injunctions and amendments and by the time it was all over, it was illegal to attach motors to anything not intended to have a motor and Dean was fine so it just didn't come up."

The explanation did little to assuage Rory's incredulity. "But why not?"

"I didn't figure you planned on attaching a motor to anything. I mean, we don't really like motorized things, though a motorized banana might be kind of fun."

"No, I mean why didn't you tell me about Dean?"

"Well, maybe because he was your ex-boyfriend who you hadn't even thought about in years," Lorelai said. "Come on, honey. You slept with him and we both know that it was over then. You didn't want him, you didn't love him, and you didn't even really sound like you regretted it when he broke up with you, which you still haven't told me all about, so I kind of figured that you probably didn't care about the guy."

It was true. It was true and it was blunt and it was hard to hear. It was almost downright cruel and Rory felt her eyes burn.

Her mother sighed. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean it like that. I just didn't tell you. No deep or ulterior motives. Just didn't seem to be relevant to where you were at. But the point here is this: Dean's going to be fine. He always is. And it's like an unwritten rule, if there's a Gilmore waiting for you in a waiting room, you're going to be fine. Worked with Grandpa, didn't it? And Logan?"

Rory looked down, nodding a little. "I should have cared," she said.

"What?"

"About Dean," she said again. "When we broke up that last time. I should have cared. I should have stopped him. He was standing there in the driveway, leaning against his truck, and I could tell he'd worn nice clothes and he'd even spent time on his hair. He wanted to do it right for me. I knew that and I was late and Logan and his friends were all standing there in their suits and ties and I could just see that Dean knew. He knew that I would never invite him inside that house again--not to protect him, but to protect me. That he would never be a boy I'd bring into this life. And it wasn't because he wasn't good enough for _it_ but because I didn't think he was good enough for _me_. I wanted what I couldn't have and when I got it, I realized why I couldn't have it in the first place. I was an awful, awful person--"

Rory was crying now, and she had been for awhile. Tears running down her face, snot clogging her nose and dripping into her coffee. Because it was true, it was all true. She'd let Dean do the hard work; she always had. She'd pushed him, played with him, and then let him slink away like he was the one who didn't deserve her.

She'd broken his heart. Three times. She'd broken his heart _three times,_ and now she was sitting here in the waiting room like she had a right to be here. Like she deserved it.

She didn't.

"Oh, honey," her mother said, wrapping an arm around her. "You were young. You were both young and going very different places. The timing wasn't right and that's not your fault."

"But it _is_ my fault," Rory insisted. "It's all my fault. I'm the one who flirted with Jess. I'm the one who kissed Jess. I'm the one who called Dean up again and again even after he was married. I'm the one who let him break up with me because I didn't know how to do it. This is _my_ fault."

"Hey, come on," her mother said. "Give Dean some credit. He can screw up his own life as well as anybody."

"That's not fair," Rory sniffled, pulling away.

"No, maybe not," Lorelai agreed. "But you're not being fair either. We're all selfish. Every one of us. We think of ourselves first because that's how we're wired. You didn't love him, Rory. You didn't but I don't think you knew that. Dean just figured out it before you did, that's all. And he did what was best for him and he's better for it. You both are."

"But this time--"

"This time, Dean's father died and he's stuck back home and you've been his friend, okay? That's all."

That wasn't all, it really wasn't, or maybe it was all and she didn't want it to be all. Why did life have to be so complicated? Why did there have to be unrequited love and broken hearts and home towns that thought they knew everything but just made everything so much harder? Harder but better and this was where Dean was and she wanted Dean. She didn't want to be his friend, she didn't want him to be unhappy and she really didn't want him to die.

"Okay, I can see your mind going, like, a million miles a minute there. Drink the coffee. Quickly. Maybe it'll bring some sanity back to you. It's been a long night."

A long night. A very long night. A long night after a long day after a long trip home after a long time away after a long time without Dean.

Just plain too long.

And no amount of coffee could make that better.

-o-

Clara came back out, eventually. She looked better somehow more tired, exhausted even, but that sort of seemed like an improvement to Rory. Because Clara had been hyper before, awake with her anxiety, with adrenaline born of fear. And if Clara was tired, really exhausted, then the adrenaline was gone. She didn't have a need for it. And that was surely a good sign.

"He's okay," Clara said. "They're going to keep him here for a bit, but he's okay."

"He's okay?" Rory asked, standing shakily. "_Okay_ okay? Okay how? What is it?"

Clara blinked kind of slowly, tucking her blonde hair behind her ear. "He's fine," she said. "Maybe he should tell you. He's awake. He said he'd like to talk to you."

Lorelai ran a hand over her back. "See? Everything's okay. I told you."

Rory was listening, kind of, but not really quite getting any of it. Not her mother and not Clara and not this hospital she was in and how she couldn't even remember what day it was.

"He's in a room," Clara was saying. "Room 311. Right down the hall. You can't miss it. My mom went to the cafeteria for breakfast and I'm going there now. Then we'll check in with Dean and his doctors again."

Rory nodded--at least, she was pretty sure she nodded. Her head wasn't really connected to her body anymore. Or maybe it was more her mind wasn't really in touch with anything anymore; perhaps it existed on a plane all its own or maybe this was an out of body experience while she was still in her body. If that was possible.

Clara was gone and her mother wasn't there and Rory was walking. So, now she wasn't just having an out of body experience, she was positively blacking out and missing entire parts of time. That must have been the case, it had to be, because she was standing in front of room 311 and she didn't really know how she'd gotten there.

Not just in front of room 311 but _here_. In this hospital, waiting on Dean, back in Stars Hollow, all of it. How had fate brought her through everything--through Chilton, through Yale, through stealing yachts and campaign trails and one of the most read papers in the country. Through Dean and Jess and Dean and Logan and Dean again.

It had to be fate. Didn't it? Otherwise it didn't make sense. She hadn't planned on this. She hadn't gone through all of it to end up in front of room 311, waiting on Dean Forester.

But why? Why would fate bring her here? Why would it take her from Detroit, from her nonstop onward struggle to excellence? Why would it take her to the store when Dean clutched his chest and passed out?

Fate. What the hell was she talking about?

Fate or no fate, she had to go in.


	25. Chapter 25

A/N: Sorry this is a day late! I was unable to post yesterday--but here's the next bit with the reveal on Dean's health and another minor turn in the road :) Thanks!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

It looked just about like every other hospital room she'd ever been in, which really made sense, since this was the hospital she'd had to visit before. Only this time, it wasn't her grandfather and it wasn't Logan and it wasn't Sookie having a baby (thank God!) but it was Dean.

Her grandfather had looked completely misplaced in the bed, too big for it, but sort of bigger than it in the way that made Rory feel not so worried about it. Logan...well, Logan had been hard to grasp because she wasn't family and she hadn't been allowed in and that was hard. And he had been unconscious and it'd been his own stupid fault and she'd been too busy fretting about what she didn't know to really think too much about what she did.

And she was not going to talk about Sookie and babies. Not now. Not ever.

But Dean.

Dean, all six foot four of him, was slouched in the bed, almost shrinking into it. His head was bowed, bangs falling all over his face. It was remarkable, really, how _small_ he looked. How he could make himself look so small, so much more defeated than her grandfather had, than Logan had, and that alone hollowed out her stomach.

She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but that really wasn't it.

"Hi," she said.

He jerked his head up, his face awash with surprise and sheepishness before he seemed to recognize her. Then he seemed to pull further into himself before offering a small smile. "Hi," he said.

She raised her eyebrows, suddenly realizing she had no idea what to say. She had no idea what she was really doing here because she wasn't a granddaughter or a girlfriend this time. She was just a friend who wanted to be more and really she just wanted to know he was okay. "So," she said. "Fancy meeting you here."

He offered another half-hearted grin that looked significantly more awkward. "Yeah," he said. "Did you stay all night?"

"I think so," Rory said. "It got kind of blurry for a few hours there before my mom got me some coffee."

Dean almost winced. "Your mom's here, too?"

Rory tried to shrug, hoping to look nonchalant. "We just wanted to make sure that we took advantage of the waiting room. No sense in hospitals keeping those things around unless people use them."

Dean nodded. "I'm sorry," he blurted. "You shouldn't have waited. I mean, I appreciate it, but I shouldn't have made you come here."

"Well, I'm not sure you really had much say in the matter," Rory said. "Passing out and all."

"I'm sorry about that, too."

"So, you're okay?" Rory asked. "Clara said you were okay but she didn't say what it was and so I would hope that it's nothing too serious since you're okay but, you know, I don't know."

"They think it's an ulcer," Dean said, ducking his head again.

"An ulcer?"  He looked up, grinning half heartedly, more for her sake, she could tell, than for his own. "Yeah. Ate away at the lining of my stomach. Apparently, I was stressed enough that I let it go all the way through and perforate into my abdominal cavity. Which, of course, explains the intense pain. If you let it go long enough, it can even cause the chest pains. Not totally common, but that's their best guess."

"Dean," she said, feeling her own stomach bottom out. "You can't be doing this to yourself."

His smile got nervous. "Yeah, I know," he said. "It'll help if I stop popping the Aleve."

"You've been popping Aleve?"

"All within the proper dosages, don't worry about that. It can just, well, exacerbate the problem."

"Exacerbate? Like, instead of just destroying your stomach it could start in on your intestines as well? What next, your skin?"

Dean looked nauseous. "That's gross."

Gross, yes, but _an ulcer_. And Dean was popping Aleve and stressing out to the point where it was literally eating parts of him. And all of this was really about to stress _her_ to the point of losing all inhibitions she may have had. Because she was in a hospital and she didn't know where she stood with Dean and he'd passed out and it was an ulcer. "Why did you let it go on so long?" she asked. "I mean, weren't you in pain?"

He shrugged a little. "Things were so crazy I guess I just lost track of it," he admitted. "There wasn't time to worry about a stomach ache."

"A stomach ache?" she asked, more than slightly incredulous. "You worried a hole through your stomach. A few more weeks and you could have had a window in your midsection!"

"It's more common than you think," he offered, but it was a meager attempt, even for a guy who was already in a hospital bed.

 She snorted. "You so do not get to downplay this," she said. "You scared the crap out of me."

His gaze fell. "I'm sorry. I never meant for this to fall to you."

"That's not what I meant," she said quickly. She was frustrated, yes, really frustrated after that kind of night and that little coffee, but she wasn't mad. And really, the _last_ thing Dean needed was more guilt. She didn't doubt that he was getting that from his mother already. Not to mention what he seemed capable of doing to himself. "And you know it."

He tried to smile at her. "I feel so ridiculous," Dean said, turning his head away again. "You shouldn't have come."

Angst was not the way to go. Not this morning. She'd had her fill and she couldn't bear to make Dean suffer any more of it. Joking, however, was a good fallback. Laughter was, after all, good for the soul, so surely it could only _help_ a stomach ulcer. "Aw, but bedside vigils are totally my thing," Rory said. "I don't have a lot of experience, so I really needed the practice."

Looking at her now, Dean grinned wearily. "Well, I'm glad to help you out in that regard. Now when you write your novel, you can describe the ins and outs of a hospital room with great detail."

"And I promise, that gown of yours will be the primary focus," she said, nodding to the paper-thin gown he was donning.

Dean grimaced, rolling his eyes. "Open back and all."

Rory raised her eyebrows. "Quite scandalous. Are you sure I can't help you to the bathroom?"

"I wish," he said. "I think I'm confined to bedpans until they can rule out any other complications."

"And if that's not incentive to keep yourself healthy, I don't know what is."

He laughed a little, but the attempt was a bit lackluster. She wanted to say something else, to say anything else, but her mind was blank. If she opened her mouth, she was just going to say something stupid, something about hospital ceilings needing to have murals painted on them for the bedridden, and that just wouldn't be right.

"Well," she said. "I guess I'll let you get your rest and check on you in a bit. I would tell you to take care of yourself, but I have a feeling the doctors and nurses will be all over that one for you. You know, since this is a hospital and all, and I wouldn't think they'd let you near the Aleve for a bit, considering."

Dean nodded absently. He paused and she was readying to go, awkwardly, when his voice stopped her. "Rory."

"Yeah?"

He looked uncertain for a minute, brow furrowed and mouth set. Then it softened. "Thanks," he said. "For being there."

Rory wanted to say something sweet, maybe something pithy, maybe something sweetly pithy, but apparently watching someone collapse from a probable ulcer deadened her senses. She supposed the fact that she hadn't slept all night and was in serious caffeine withdrawal probably had something to do with it as well.

Still, she wanted to say something. Because Dean was lying there, still looking so pale, turning those big eyes on her, telling her _thanks_ and it felt so good.

She found herself smiling. "There's no place I'd rather be."

It was the right thing to say. It really was. She wasn't sure where it came from and she wasn't totally sure how her caffeine-depraved, sleep-deprived mind came up with any intelligible at all, but the look on Dean's face, the smile of his lips. It was the right thing.

Given the events of the last twenty-four hours, that was _definitely_ something they needed.

-o-

Fate. It _was_ fate. It had to be fate, because what on earth could be the cause of all of this entirely ridiculous mess?

It was like fate seemed to be going on the offensive these days. First Dean rejected her (well, kind of, but not really, but who really _knew_ anymore?). Then Dean passed out in front of her and had to be carted off in an ambulance (which was more than slightly terrifying, no matter how she looked at it). And then, on the way out of Dean's hospital room where she was just barely recovering from those first two blows, she ran into May Forester.

Also known as, the mother from hell.

Well, to Rory anyway.

Not that May was her mother but Rory was not a fan of the way May acted around her or Dean or Clara or _anyone _for that matter. Basically, the mother from hell. Condescending, oblivious, self-absorbed--you name the bad trait, May basically embodied it. To be fair, Rory knew that she'd just lost her husband, but that did nothing to excuse the previous injunctions, the ones Rory herself had witnessed and the ones she'd heard from her mother.

Rory really needed coffee. She did. Because her antagonism was flaring and she hadn't even had a real conversation with the woman.

Was it possible that she could slip by May without having to engage in some form of conversation? It wasn't like May liked her either, so it was entirely possible that May was having equally negative thoughts about her and therefore discourage either of them from attempting to start some kind of misguided conversation.

Still, they were going to walk right by each other. She _had _to acknowledge her presence at least.

She was going for a nice, courteous if curt nod, when her bad luck streak seemed to rear its ugly head.

"Rory," May said and even in her half-delirious state, Rory could see anxiety light in the woman's eyes. "You talked to him?"

"Just for a minute," Rory said. "I think he's pretty tired."

"What did he tell you?" she prompted. "He wouldn't tell me much."

And suddenly, May's interest made sense. She needed information. Rory was a convenient source.

Sure May made sense, but that just made Rory's position all the more uncertain. She didn't know what May knew, she didn't know what Dean wanted May to know or what he might not or the reasons why he would withhold such information. Too many variables. Too little caffeine. Vague was the way to go. Safe. Less thought required. "Well, he's tired, like I said," Rory offered. "I think it's been kind of a long night."

Dean's mother sighed. "So, he didn't tell you anything else? Like about how it happened? I mean, I know they think it's an ulcer, but how did he get it? My Aunt Louise had an ulcer and she never collapsed, so I just don't understand."

"Well, it's been a rough go of things," Rory offered the obvious.

But May was hardly listening to her. "He's always doing this," May said, running a hand through her hair. "Every damn summer he drags us back here, and he has no idea what it does to us--what it did to Randy."

Rory shifted uncomfortable. "I don't think he does it on purpose," she said. "I know I wasn't around the last few summers, but I know this wasn't his fault."

May still didn't look at her. Her jaw was clenched and she looked like she hadn't slept in about two days. The stress was wearing her out, too, just like it was Dean, so Rory knew to tread carefully. The woman had lost her husband, after all, and was just learning that her son had worried his way into a poorly placed ulcer. "But who's going to run the store? How are we going to pay the bills? We can't _afford_ this right now. Dean _knows_ that. He knows it better than I do, so I don't understand these childish stunts--"

"This isn't a stunt," Rory interjected, too incredulous to let it pass. "Nor is it childish. Dean has a medical problem. He can't control this."

May looked at her this time, her eyes almost scathing. "Excuse me, young lady," she said. "But I'm fairly certain you don't know my son like I do."

"No, I clearly don't," Rory agreed. She agreed and she should have left it at that. Should have left it alone. Because picking fights with grieving widows in hospital waiting rooms was not a good idea. Not advised. Not proper. But just because May was hurting didn't mean she should take it out on Dean. Didn't mean that Dean should bear the brunt of his family's needs and problems.

For a second, May almost looked smug.

And Rory couldn't hold it back. Wouldn't. Because that reporter's clarity was still there, stronger and truer than ever. This time, not just about her. But about Dean. She got it. All of Dean's sacrifices, all of Dean's efforts had been for his family, to keep them together, to do the right thing. Foreign concepts to Rory--foreign because Rory's family had never wanted her to be anything but Rory. Dean's family needed him in a different way, a harder way, a way that meant that love required sacrificed, it required giving up oneself.

The part that killed her, the part that made sure she wouldn't hold her tongue, was that Dean did. He did so willingly, time and time again, no matter how much he wanted, no matter anything. And it still wasn't enough. Not for her, not for his mother, and Rory didn't know how much more he could take.

She did know she wouldn't take it on his behalf. Not now. Not ever.

"Because I know that your son has given up _everything_ for his family," Rory continued. "I get that he's let you down before. I get that he's made mistakes. But I also know that he gave up a great job, his _dream_ job to come back and work a store for no other reason than it meant something to his father. I know he gave up a chance to be on his own for no other reason than to support you and Clara, so you can keep the house, so Clara can go to school. I know your son would do anything for you and has worked himself senseless just to try to make you happy. And still somehow you're never happy and I don't know if you ever will be. What, when he's dead? Will it be enough for you then? Or you will you just be mad that he let you down again?"

It came out in a rush, in one breath almost, and it left her heaving for air and red in the face.

May stared at her, too shocked to be angry. Her eyes were wide, her mouth hanging open.

"So, excuse me," Rory said. "I'm going to be sure Dean's okay before I sit around and talk about what he should or shouldn't do, or worse, what he's failed to do. Because maybe Dean needs someone to care about _Dean_ for awhile."

She didn't hesitate, didn't even look back as she brushed past May.

She _really _needed that cup of coffee. Though she was pretty sure that once she woke up, she would realize exactly what she'd just said.

-o-

She was shaking by the time she got back to the waiting room. At least she felt like she was shaking. Her entire body felt cold, electrifyingly so, and it was like her nerves were totally an edge with the adrenaline still pumping through her veins.

Confrontation, inherently, did not appeal to her. It was too, well, confrontational. She didn't like the way it made her feel, the way it haunted her afterwards. Which was why she _tended_ to avoid it, instead opting for excessively verbose diplomacy that, if nothing else, subdued her confronter with fast, inane talking.

Besides, she always shook like a leaf when it was done, a habit which made her feel about eight-years-old.

But maybe it wasn't as bad as she thought. It could just be in her head--a lot of things seemed to be.

"You look like crap," her mother noted the instant she got back.

So much for hiding it. "I need coffee." True, though perhaps beside the point. Well, as much as coffee could ever be beside the point.

"Well, I was thinking more along the lines of breakfast," her mother said. "You know, actual food. Crazy idea, I know, but generally they do recommend that people eat three solid meals a day."

"We've never listened to dietary guidelines."

"No time like the present to start," her mother said. "Besides, Luke's on this breakfast kick. Keeps telling me that it is actually the most important meal to eat, which you always hear, but he actually said it's because it starts your metabolism earlier. And you need to jump start that good old metabolism or everything moves slowly. Of course, I'm pretty sure Luke wasn't thinking pancakes and hash browns, but hey, you can't do everything right."

"You could always make it worse with sausage links."

"Or bacon," her mother suggested. "But seriously. I think we should make a run for it. Assuming, you know, that Dean's okay."

"Dean's fine," Rory said absently.

"Fine?"

"You said he would be."

"Yes, but I was hoping for a little more insight than that."

Rory sighed, sinking to the chair. "It's an ulcer."

"An ulcer?"

Rory just nodded. "Something about it eating away all the way through the stomach wall and into places where it shouldn't."

Lorelai made a face. "Sounds...unpleasant."

"If the look on his face was any indication, it was unpleasant."

"But he's okay."

"He's okay," Rory agreed wearily.

"So, why are you not okay?"

There was no point in hiding it. No point in avoiding it. This was her mother after all. "I ran into May."

"And I'm taking that you didn't just exchange reassuring thoughts on Dean's condition."

"She started to go off," Rory said, feeling her steam come back. "About how Dean's always doing this, about how she can't trust him, about all this stuff. And she just didn't get it."

"I don't think she's ever gotten it," her mother said. "She said the same stuff to me that summer Dean got hit by a bike."

"Which still doesn't make any sense to me," Rory said. "But that's not the point. The point is that Dean worried his way into an ulcer for her. I mean, he gave up everything for her and the family and all of it, and she doesn't care. She doesn't care."

"I think she cares, she just doesn't quite grasp it all," her mother ventured.

"But it's not fair."

"Honey, lots of things aren't fair. And you have to cut May a little slack. It's not like there's a guidebook on how to best cope with the loss of your husband."

"But it's not fair to Dean."

"Again," her mother said. "Lots of things haven't been fair to Dean."

Rory furrowed her brow and sunk back in the seat, not caring if she looked more than a little petulant. She hadn't gotten any sleep. Dean had an ulcer. She needed coffee. And she'd just chewed out May Forester, which wouldn't be so bad, except it was Dean's mother, his _mother_, and it didn't matter how right Rory could be, she was pretty sure riling up Dean's mother would only come back on Dean. "It should be."

"Well, we can't change that," Lorelai said. "But when we come back from breakfast I was totally thinking about buying him a movie or two. You know, some of the classics that we used to subject him, too. Nothing says healing quite like _Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory_."

"Ooplma loopmas do have that kind of effect on people." 

"Even if they are sour little things. That somber music Orange faces. You have to love orange faces. Everyone looks healthy in contrast to an orange face."

"Why did you want to get him that one again?"

"We can always settle for something more manly. Action. Adventure. Something with Bruce Willis."

"That's your idea of an action hero? He doesn't even have hair."

"Hair is a prerequisite of an action hero?"

"He's sort of fatherly."

"Well, I don't hear you making any suggestions."

That was true. Probably because her brain wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders. "Maybe we should get food now."

"Smart move," her mother agreed. "Food first, the perfect get well movie to torture him with second."

"He has an ulcer, you know."

"So we avoid movies with flesh eating diseases."

"I didn't know that was a genre."

"It is now."

"I think we need to go," Rory said.

Her mother mercifully relented. "We're going, we're going."

And Rory knew they couldn't go fast enough.


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: Rory had quite the go of it last chapter--as much as I agree with her, I'm not sure Dean's going to take it so well... Thanks!

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

By the time they got back to the hospital, Rory felt marginally human. Sure, she still hadn't slept and, okay, so she hadn't showered but she had eaten. And downed a pot of coffee. It was like the thrill of writing all night to make a 4 AM deadline.

She sort of wished it was. There was a rush with that. There was no rush, no payoff when it came to Dean being in the hospital.

In fact, she sort of wished it was anything except this. Because an ulcer wasn't really nearly as bad as it could have been, but it was still pretty bad. Pretty bad, as in Dean had worried himself into the hospital, which sounded like a bad joke come true.

Maybe it was best she hadn't gotten any sleep. As tired as she was, the night before could sort of pass as a surreal dream.

Sort of.

At least this time, she wasn't going in alone. Her mother would be able to keep her from ultimate disaster and would probably even steer her clear of May Forester, in case Rory should be tempted to go on sleep-deprive, coffee-induced rants.

Dean probably knew by now.

That was the thing.

Dean had to know by now. And that was the real reason why Rory wished she was going anywhere but there, even though she knew she had to go see him again. That was what would-be girlfriends would do for their would-be boyfriends.

And it was so worth it when she pushed open the door and saw him siting in his better.

He looked better.

Of course, he couldn't have looked much worse. She had seen him clutch his chest and pass out on the floor of the stereo shop, so anything was truly still an improvement. But his color was returning a little and the gauntness of his face was softened with sleep and food. His eyes were even bright and clear when she and Lorelai walked in, and Rory could see the subtle shift of guardedness they took on when they made eye contact.

"Hey, nice digs," Lorelai said, scooting into the room, leaving Rory lingering in the doorway.

Dean looked up, a little surprised, his eyes glancing from Lorelai to Rory and back again. "At least this time I got a room with a view," he said. "Last time, I was stuck with a window that looked out onto another wall."

"Anything is better than the time I saw you here and you had that roommate," her mother said. "You know, that one who snored."

Dean made a face. "Worse, he had to use a bedpan. And he wasn't exactly subtle."

"Yeah, you've been due for a better room," her mother continued. "Nice to see they pay attention to seniority. You've got to be a more frequent flier than most of the schmucks on this floor."

"Careful," Dean said. "I am one of those schmucks, after all."

"Nah, you're just a kid with an ulcer. No schmucking in this room."

Rory shifted her weight from one foot to another, trying to figure out how she fit in here. _If_ she fit in here. If Dean was just so absorbed in polite banter with her mother that he didn't have time to look at her.

"So, we come bearing gifts," her mother said. She moved forward, holding out the bag.

Dean accepted the bag peering inside hesitantly.

"Rory was leaning toward a comedy, you know, something to lighten the mood, since you did sort of _worry_ yourself into the hospital after all."

Dean pulled out the DVD, looking at it with an amused grin. "But you thought _Brian's Song _would be more appropriate?"

"An odd choice, yes," her mother admitted. "But we just wanted you to know that no matter how bad things got, things could always get worse."

He shook his head. "Anything to make grown men cry has to be the perfect gift for a bed-ridden patient."

"Exactly," Lorelai said. "So, you feeling okay?"

Rory stood stiffly, almost afraid to move. The banter was light, just like it had always been between her mother and Dean, the way it should be. Dean always had been a preference of her mother's, which normally would be a good thing, except all of this was avoiding the simple fact that Rory was still not sure where she and Dean stood and Dean hadn't had a chance to say _anything_ about a certain confrontation.

Nope, the coffee hadn't helped. Her mind was still addled with exhaustion. Even her inner monologue was completely devoid of sense.

"Well," her mother was saying. "Rory and I will probably be heading back to Stars Hollow soon, but we wanted to let you know that we're thinking of you, ulcer and all."

Dean fingered the DVD again, his bangs falling over his face. "Well, I appreciate it," he said. "I still feel pretty stupid about it all."

"Hey, at least it's not a head injury this time."

"True," Dean agreed. "I've had enough of those."

"Yep, enough damage to your brain, time to start hitting those other internal organs."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence."

Her mother shifted, looking over at her, before shuffling her feet a little. "Maybe I should leave you two to talk for a moment," she said. "I need some coffee, anyway."

It was a lie, a really bad and obvious lie, and they all knew it. And part of Rory wanted to say no, to make her stay, but neither Dean nor she could come up with a single word to stop it.

"Thanks, Lorelai," Dean said. "We'll have to watch it together sometime."

"Ooh, we can bet who cries first," her mother said.

"It's a plan." 

"Great," her mom said. Then she turned to Rory. "I'll meet you in the cafeteria."

With that, her mother left, and Rory was suddenly faced with the very real fact that she needed to say something to Dean.

"Hi," she said.

He gave her an awkward smile. "Hi."

"So, you really are looking better."

"Yeah," Dean said. "I'm feeling better, too."

"Good," Rory said. "Because that's what hospitals are supposed to do. Make people feel better. Because if they didn't, then, well, why would sick people come here?"

"Yeah," he agreed. "Right."

They lapsed into silence and Rory dug her hands into her pockets, wishing that she was someplace else, anyplace else, preferably with caffeine. And a bed.

It wasn't going to happen. She needed to get this over with. It had been too long of a night and too much had happened and she just wanted to face it, face it now, and deal with it. After all, everything she'd said had been true. It'd been true and she'd said it for Dean.

"So," Rory ventured. "I talked to you mom."

He nodded, licking his lips. "I know."

"It, uh, got kind of heated."

"She told me."

"I didn't mean to," Rory said. "I just...she was saying all this stuff and I know how hard you try and I couldn't let her say that stuff about you, not after what I've seen you going through. And I was tired and I was emotional and it just came out."

He just nodded, slowly, seeming to weigh his words. "Rory, you shouldn't have said that," he said.

That was it? That was what he had to say? She hadn't exactly expected a thank you, but she shouldn't have said that? She was way too tired for this. The night was too long, she had gone too long without sleep, and she just didn't know what else to say.

"I shouldn't have said that?" Rory asked, her mouth hanging open. "You would have rather me sat there and let her tear you down _again_?"

"She's my mother," Dean explained softly.

 "And I know you love her," Rory said. "And that's the point. You do everything for her. And she needs to see that."

"No, Rory," he said, sighing a little. "You don't get it."

"Don't get it? That your mother can't see what you're doing? Or that you refuse to stand up for yourself?"

It came out harsher than she intended and Dean's face hardened upon hearing it.

He swallowed evenly, though, licking his lips purposefully. "You don't get what it's all about," he said finally. "You don't get that sometimes sacrifice isn't about getting praised. I'll do this for my family because they're my family. Not because they deserve it."

"But it's going to kill you!" Rory said. "I mean, how do you think you ended up here to begin with?"

His face went sheer white, and he swallowed reflexively, his hand massaging his upper abdomen. "I think you need to go," he said.

Her shoulders sagged. "Dean, I--"

He wouldn't look up at her. He wouldn't even move. "Rory, please."

She clenched her teeth, trying to find the words. "I only want to help you."

"You're not helping this way," he said.

"But--"

He looked up at her and she stopped short.

"Dean, I--I'm sorry," she said softly. "I only want what's best for you."

"You don't know what's best for me."

"Well, I'm worried about you," she said. "You're working too hard and it is catching up with you. You need to take some time for you."

"You mean for you," Dean said, his eyes down again.

There was a sting to his words. "What?"

He looked up. "You mean I need to take time for you," he said. "That's what this is all about, isn't it? You've been begging for my attention since you got to town and because you think we'd make such a good couple I'm supposed to rearrange my entire life to meet your whims. Well, I'm sorry, Rory, but my life doesn't revolve around you. I tried that once--twice, three times--and it got me nowhere."

Tears stung her eyes and her body felt tense. She'd been patient. She's been just friends. She'd done _everything_ for him and he was getting mad at _her_? When it was _his mother_ who had started this? "Oh and this whole self-sacrificial macho route is going so well for you," she snapped back. "If you don't want to date me, that's one thing. But if you want to sit around and give up all your potential and call it noble, that's another. This will never make you happy, and I don't know why you're sitting around letting it happen."

"And you think you know what will make me happy?" he shot back. "You, who hadn't even seen my family's store until _ten years_ after we first met. You, who has always been too busy with her own things for years to really care about mine."

It hurt. It was below the belt and it made her want to cry and scream all at once.

But he was in a hospital bed. He had lost his father, his future, his everything. She took a measured breath and composed herself. "This isn't you, Dean," she said, standing. "And I'm not perfect, but I don't like seeing you like this."

The anger faded from his face and he seemed to deflate. "I know," he whispered. "You've always made me believe I could do so much more than anyone else. But--sometimes it's too much, you know? When I need to do something, I need to do something. I don't have the same luxuries you do. I can't just live my life for me. You're lucky like that, that all anyone wants from you is to be _Rory_."

"Well, I just want you to be Dean," she said.

He smiled a little, sad and weary. "You want me to be _your _Dean," he said. "There's a difference."

The denials, the protests, the comebacks all died on her tongue. Because he was right. He was always right.

Sinking back, he turned his head away. "I'm tired," he said.

It was an out--for both of them. She took it. "You should sleep, then," she said. She paused. "Can I come back tomorrow?"

For a moment, for one painful moment, she thought he'd say no. That he'd block her out, that he'd meant everything deep down and truly.

But, his head still turned away, he nodded.

There was relief, fast and true, but she didn't dare smile. "Okay," she said instead. "Take care."

He didn't respond, and that hurt, but Rory would take what she could get. Giving him one last look, she turned and left the room.

-o-

She found her mother in the waiting room.

"So, I take it he wasn't thrilled with the fact that you decided to further his mother's disdain for Gilmore girls," Lorelai ventured when Rory plopped next to her.

"What gave it away?"

"That demoralized, dejected, and utterly confused look on your face."

"That obvious, then."

"Sort of like the nose on your face."

"I like my nose."

"It's still right there, smack dab in the middle of your face."

"I just don't _get_ it," Rory said finally. "What he's doing. Why he just rolls over and lets his family _use_ him the way he does? It's like he doesn't even _care_."

Her mother sighed. "Honey, I think he cares very much."

"Then why does he let it happen?" she asked, her voice rising. "Why won't he just break away and _stop_ it?"

"Because he's not that kind of guy," her mother explained. "I mean, haven't you figured that out by now?"

"What? A guy who stands up for himself?"

Her mother looked at her, clearly thinking. "You know, despite all appearances, I really have tried to raise you the best I can. It's not perfect because I'm not perfect and there's something I'm beginning to think neither of us totally get."

"I'm not entirely sure I'm following your point." She was used to her mother's rambling, much like she was used to her own, but there had to be a _point_. Even her mother usually had a point.

"The point that sometimes doing something for someone else _isn't_ weak. That sometimes the right thing to do isn't just about what you want. I mean, over the last few years, Luke and I...things have been different. It's been simple. Slower. Almost peaceful. Because we started doing things _for_ each other. Not just things that seemed _right _or _fun_ but things that actually _mattered_ to one another. Like, I'll take his daughter out shopping not because I enjoy reliving my own teenage years and spending lots of money, but because it means something to him to see me care about her. Just like the reason he planned your party--not that he didn't care about you, but because he knew it would matter to me. Sometimes the best expression of love is sacrifice."

Rory's shoulders sagged a little. "I can see that," she said. "I can. I mean, it's why I knew I didn't really love Logan like that. Why I couldn't marry him. Because it wasn't worth giving things up for him. But what this is doing to Dean, what his family does to him--it's hurting him. It's _hurting_ him. That's not okay, is it?"

Her mother shook her head sadly. "No, it's not," she said. "Dean's screwed up a lot in his life and he's more than paid his dues. Why the people who are closest to him still can't _forgive_ him, I don't know."

"So, doesn't he need to get away? Need to break from them?"

"Rory, I'm not sure it's your place to tell him what he needs to do," she said. "I think he gets to decide that."

"But then what _am_ I supposed to do?" Rory almost whined.

This time her mother smiled. "That depends on how you feel about him."

Rory's eyes narrowed. "In what way?"

"Well, if you're going to be his friend, be his friend. Try to talk to him, try to help him relax. That's all you can do."

Rory looked down, bit her lip. "And if we're more than friends?"

"Then you give up as much for him as he gives up for everyone around him," she said. "He just needs to be loved, honey, and I'm pretty sure we'll be surprised what he can do."

"Give up everything?"

Her mother shrugged. "Only if you really love him."

With that, Lorelai stood, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry I never taught you this before," she said. "I think I was still figuring it out myself."

Rory met her eyes and smiled. "You've taught it better than you know."

"Well, then maybe we'll both grow up after all."

"Yeah," Rory agreed. She smiled a little, wistful and hopeful all at once. "Maybe."


	27. Chapter 27

A/N: I had the choice of either posting this a day late with all my replies done or posting today with none of them done. I chose today :) I will get to review replies tonight or tomorrow at the latest and I'll just say I'm so grateful for all of them! It means so much to have readers on a fic of this length, so I want to say I appreciate them greatly :)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

She didn't go to see him the next day. She told herself it was because she had another assignment to write, some 750 word piece about the annual pie eating contest, and that she had to get her interviews done as soon as she could if she was going to hit the deadline.

It was a good excuse, as far as excuses went, because she really had put it off long enough. But the fact was, the fact _always_ was, that it certainly _was_ an excuse. A reason to not go back to the hospital. To not be there when Dean finally checked out and made his way back home.

And not only could she find excuses, but rationalizations as well. In fact, she thought of at least three good ones while typing away at Luke's at lunchtime.

First of all, Dean had not been happy with her. She hadn't left on terrible terms, but she really hadn't left on good terms, either. That wasn't something she wanted to push. Even though he had consented to see her, it had been out of politeness. And Dean shouldn't have to worry about being polite while trying to manage his mother, his sister, and his newfound ulcer.

Second of all, May would be there, undoubtedly, and the last thing she wanted, the last thing Dean needed, was for Rory to go another round with her. Regardless of the fact that Rory had been right, being right apparently didn't make it any easier for Dean or May or probably even Clara. The Forester family's stress was already high, and Rory did not wish to exacerbate it at this point.

And last of all, her mother was insane. Completely. After everything, her mother gave her a speech about love and sacrifice and how Rory didn't get it and, well, that scared the crap out of her. Because she _didn't_ get it. Well, she got it, on that intellectual level, but she didn't _get_ it in that emotional sense, in that way that her heart knew what to do with it, knew how to act on it.

And she wasn't ready to deal with any of it. A withdrawn Dean, a stressed-out May, and a confused Rory was not a recipe for a good day. So she was doing them a _favor_ by keeping far, far away.

Still. She'd _promised_. Though it wasn't even the promise, not really, not if she was honest with herself. It was that she wanted to see him, needed to see him.

If only she knew what to say.

She always knew what to say. She made her living writing. Yet, when it came to matters of the heart, matters of love and sacrifice, she always blanked. When _I love you, you idiot_ was all she had.

The funny thing was, it had always been enough--for Dean.

But this time...

This time she needed to write about pies and Kirk's goal to down two whole pies himself and the fact that apple pie was the easiest of all to consume.

When Luke came by to fill her cup, he looked with moderate interest at her screen. "You have a deadline?"

"Yes," she said. "The pie eating contest."

"Right," Luke said. "The important stuff."

"People here love their pie."

"And people gorging senselessly on it. It's despicable, really. The state this world is coming to. No wonder over half the population is morbidly obese. Why our death rate isn't skyrocketing is beyond me."

Rory shrugged. "I don't make the news, I just report it."

"Excuses. If you're not part of the solution--"

"I know, I'm part of the problem," Rory agreed. "I just so like pie. I'm very weak like that."

Luke scowled a bit. "And pie is worth long years of your life?"

"As long as it's cherry."

"Not banana cream?"

"Not even pecan."

"Dean's getting out today, right?"

He said it without missing a beat, without pausing, like it was totally natural.

"Yeah," she said, focusing on the screen intently. "That's what he said."

"I keep thinking I should go over," Luke said. "But your mom talked me out of it. Said Dean's mother was in rare form."

Rory's jaw tightened and she pressed her lips together. "It is pretty stressful."

"Yeah," Luke said. "I suppose. You going back?"

She opened her mouth, looking up at him. "I, uh--"

"He could probably use a friendly face."

"Yeah," she said, trying to smile. "I might stop by later."

Luke nodded a little. "Good luck with your pie."

"Like I need luck with pie," she commented absently as Luke walked away. Pie, no. Dean, yes. Because Dean _could _use a friendly face. She just wasn't so sure how friendly hers was anymore.

-o-

Pie or no pie, promise or no promise, she ended up at Dean's house. After dropping her article off, she still had an hour before she would be hungry, longer than that until her mother would be around, and she found herself in front of Dean's place and out of excuses to avoid him.

Apparently, there was a God who believed in such a thing as grace, because Clara answered the door.

"Hey," the younger girl said. "I wondered when you'd be by."

"I wanted to give you guys some time alone," Rory explained lamely, moving inside.

Clara shut the door and Rory noticed for the first time how tired she looked. "We've had more than enough of that," Clara said. "I'm about to implode here. My mom is practically smothering us all and Dean--"

"He's still doing okay, right?"

"Yeah," Clara said quickly. "He's recovering fine. Physically, anyway. But I just don't know. He's just not quite himself. Down. And all my mother can do is talk about how all these things need to get done, how she's being so inconvenienced--it's enough to give _me_ an ulcer."

"Sorry," Rory said. There was more to say, and she could of course agree, but she didn't need to start any more fights in the family. She'd been there, done that, and she was sort of tired of conflict. For awhile anyway.

"Anyway, Dean's upstairs," Clara said. "Doctor's orders were pretty strict. He's tried to talk his way back into work but at least Mom's bright enough to keep him clear of that for the time being, not that she doesn't make him feel bad about it."

Of course she did. That was May Forester through and through. Only that woman could somehow make her son who felt so bad over the family business feel worse for feeling bad.

"So I'm glad you're here," Clara prattled on. "He needs someone who can make him laugh."

"Well, I can try," Rory said. And she hoped it wasn't a lie.

-o-

Dean was propped up in his bed, staring somewhat forlornly at the TV.

"Man, you think you would get a new one of those," Rory commented, glancing at the archaic device.

He looked up. "Can't get rid of a classic."

"You've adapted your very own mode of masochism, I see."

"Well, if I can't work, I might as well find other ways to be miserable."

"Spoken like a true pessimist."

"It's a thing I'm trying out."

"Is this before or after you wound up in the hospital?"

"Point taken."

She moved farther inside, her eyes perusing the room. "You're looking better," she said. "And your room looks good. You know, now that all the dress-making stuff is gone. Not that it wasn't very stylish, but it never actually screamed _Dean_."

Dean laughed slightly. "I suppose my mom finally decided that, since I was home to stay, I should have my own space. Now it looks less like a housewife's store room and more like I'm still seventeen."

"A common problem," she agreed. "Though, we could make short work of it. You know, rearrange the furniture, buy some bookshelves--"

"Mahogany or particle board?"

She blushed at that, surprised by the humor in his voice. Shyly, she looked at him. "I think you seem more like a classic cherry person," she said. "Something with clean lines. Maybe mission style."

"Wow," he said. "You developing a secret career as an interior designer on the side?"

She just smiled. "Hardly," she said. "But I think we can do better than old hockey trophies and high school banners."

"Those were my glory days," he protested.

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "After all you accomplished at college? I know you have boxes of stuff somewhere, just waiting to be unpacked."

At that, he nodded. "I guess I didn't see the point," he said. "That's not a side of me most people know."

"Well, most people are missing out."

She had said it lightly, quickly without thinking. And it made him pause, made her pause, and for a second she worried it was the wrong thing--too forward, too obvious.

"So, are you volunteering?" he asked finally.

"What?"

"Volunteering to help me," he said. "Arrange my room."

"Oh," she said. "Oh. Yeah. Sure. I mean, if you want me to. I'm not good at it or anything, but, you know, organizing is kind of my thing. I could totally alphabetize your CDs for you."

"Great," he laughed. "Just what I need."

"Well, we all need organization. Otherwise, how do you find that CD you need in a pinch? An entire moment can be lost while you're searching endless for the right CD and if you'd just organized them logically, you know, by artist name and genre, then it would have been so easy, but--"

"Rory," he interrupted her.

She closed her mouth, smiling nervously. "Sorry. I get a little excited about alphabetization."

He drew his brows together, looking down at his hands on top of the comforter. "About the other day--"

"We can forget the other day," she assured him. "Sometimes, I speak without thinking. Not that you don't know that. It's just a problem I sort of have, and I'm sorry--"

He shook his head, effectively cutting her off. "Nothing has changed with that," he said. He looked up, meeting her eyes. "You know that, right?"

Licking her lips evenly, she tried to nod. "Yeah, I know."

"I know I haven't always been sure about this friends thing," he said. "But you were my friend even when you maybe shouldn't have been. And that always meant a lot to me. You don't have to hide. As long as you understand that this is who I am and that's not changing. This is my _family_. I can't fight that."

And the simple truth was, neither could she. Well, she _could_. She could fight and argue and cry and beg, but that wasn't the way to do it. It wasn't _right_. Not when he was as stressed as he was, not when his world was hanging so precariously by a thread, like it seemed to be. Not when love was about sacrifice and she had no idea what that meant.

"I'm not going to ask you to," she said quietly, almost reverently. "I promise."

She'd promised lots of things to him. She'd promised to love him, she'd promise that there was nothing going on between her and Jess, she'd promised to be just friends. And she'd broken them all.

Somehow, she knew she couldn't break this one. Not without breaking him.

"But you need to promise me something," she said.

He looked a bit surprised. "What?"

"That you'll look after you," she said. "In the most basic sense. No more skipping meals. No more popping Aleve. You're no good to anybody if you don't learn how to maintain this."

Dean's cheeks reddened a little and he seemed to sink into the pillows. "I feel so stupid about it all."

"Well, you should," Rory admonished. "But I'm pretty sure not for the reasons you think."

"And how do you figure that?"

"Well, you should feel stupid for not _telling_ anyone. For not realizing just how bad off you were. You're too important, Dean. To a lot of people."

To _her_. She didn't say that, though. She didn't have to. He understood.

"Well," he said. "Thanks."

"For what? Adding to your stress?"

"No," he said. "For being there."

For being there. Friendship or romance, there was no other place she wanted to be.

-o-

She had never particularly dreaded Friday Night dinners, at least not as a general rule. She had been loathe to go a time or two when things were rough between them all, but she had always found her grandparents rather encouraging, humorous even. They doted on her, which any grandchild would love, and they really had always supported her, even if she didn't always agree in the manner in which that support was manifested.

They had even been so patient with her, sympathetic to the point of utter denial, through the fiasco with the boat and her temporary break from Yale. So really, she knew they understood her needs. So really, the fact that she was working for the Gazette and living at home shouldn't have been an issue.

But this time, there was no huge catastrophic incident to degrade her self-esteem. There was nothing concrete to point to and call her reason for a lack of initiative. She just didn't feel ready for things yet, or ready to make her next big move, and she didn't even know what on earth that would be.

And that was hard to tell her grandparents.

So Rory would have thought she'd be relieved when the topic of conversation switched off her options and her job situation. And she would have, too, if they had decided to discuss the roast chicken they were eating or even the new curtains in the pool house or the fact that the new pool boy didn't speak one word of English.

But instead, they chose to ask about what was quite possibly Rory's second-least favorite topic of conversation these days: her social life.

"Have you managed to keep up with any of your old Yale friends since returning?" her grandfather asked. "I saw Wayne Redecker the other day and he said his boy was already back in school for his masters degree. Good boy, he was always a year or two ahead of you in school."

"Yes," her grandmother chimed in. "I'm sure you remember him. We had him over to the house."

Rory did not remember Wayne Redecker or his son, though she wasn't exactly keen to tell them so. These types of conversations were never innocent and if she wasn't careful she was going to end up at the only girl at a party again. "I'm not sure I quite recall," Rory hedged vaguely.

"You've met one rich boy, you've met them all," Lorelai broke in.

Her grandmother cast her mother a soured look. "Yes, but the point is that Wayne Redecker's son is back in the area. I'm sure lots of Rory's old classmates are still around, either in schooling or in work. I heard that Richard Kenley's oldest boy is now working in the family business and doing quite well."

Rory didn't bother saying she didn't remember Richard Kenley or his oldest boy, either.

"Emily and I were merely thinking about Rory," her grandfather explained. "Coming back home can be a difficult experience, even if it is a short furlough for her. She should be sure to find friends, companionship."

"Oh, I'm fine," Rory assured them. "A lot of my friends in Stars Hollow are still around. And of course, there's Mom and Luke, which are a source of unending entertainment."

"I try hard," her mother said.

"I suspect you don't have to try at all," her grandmother said.

"Hey, that's funny," Lorelai replied. "Really, actually pretty funny. I'm impressed."

Rory couldn't help but smirk into her plate. Maybe her mother's ability to be completely illogical and oddly humorous would spare her from the conversation she knew her grandparents wanted to initiate.

Her grandmother sighed and shook her head before looking back at Rory. "If you would like us to help set some things up, we'd be more than happy to," she said. "I know how difficult it can be, being out of the social loop for so long. But you always did flourish at it."

No such luck. Not even Lorelai could avert this.

"Of course she did," her grandfather added. "I've even seen many fresh new faces at the club these days. I could probably look into getting you some kind of membership there."

"I haven't really kept up my golf game," Rory admitted, feeling somewhat sheepish.

"Well, it's not just for golf," her grandfather said with a suggestive tilt of his head.

Okay, so now it wasn't just uncomfortable but downright weird. "Uh, really," Rory said. "I'm good."

"Yeah, Rory's doing quite well," her mother interjected. "She has survived for nearly four years without any meddling from any of us. Which has been more disturbing for us than it has for her, I'm pretty sure."

It was a good effort and one Rory could appreciate. But she knew that, at this point, it was a lost cause. Tonight was a lost cause. Her grandparents had always wanted to marry her off, not in some controlling way but in the best way possible that just happened to turn out controlling in the end. She loved her grandparents and she even had known some rich boys that were quite acceptable but she was too old to be paraded around and besides, none of them were Dean.

Her grandparents could be very dense to things of normal people and often didn't understand Rory very well, but apparently they understood this.

"I suppose you're still seeing that _boy_," her grandmother said with a small sigh.

"Mom, I think if you _saw_ him, you wouldn't think of him as a boy," her mother said with a glint in her eye.

Her grandmother just rolled her eyes. "Lorelai, really, you are_ much _too old for such antics."

"I hope I never get that old," her mother said. She looked at Rory, nodding. "You know what I'm talking about."

And of course Rory did. The physical nature of Dean was enjoyable, but it was more than that. Which was why she was not prone to humoring her mother right then. Or putting up with her grandmother. "If you're both referring to Dean, then, yes, I am still seeing him."

"Really?" Lorelai asked. "You both figured that out?"

"Well, it's not like totally figured out," Rory admitted. "But we're still spending a lot of time together."

Her grandmother pursed her lips a little. "I thought we were past that," her grandmother said. "He's never seemed quite trustworthy. After all, it hasn't worked out any other time with that boy."

"He's no more a boy than I am a girl," Rory said shortly, all too aware that her grandmother was _right_--but that had been _her_ fault and she _was_ going to make that right. "And he's perfectly trustworthy. More so than any other guy who I've been with."

"We always were rather fond of Logan," her grandmother said thoughtfully.

"Yes, well, Logan was rather fond of himself as well," Rory said. "And I just wasn't fond enough of him."

Bristling a little, her grandmother smoothed her face over with a smile. "All the same, you do seem to be getting rather old to be entertaining childish pursuits."

Rory rolled her eyes. "It's not _childish_."

"And you two really are picky," her mom added. "I was too young, Rory's too old. What is there? A two year window that we all happened to have missed?"

"There simply comes a time when a woman has to figure out where she's going, what she wants," her grandfather said pointedly. "It's not an easy thing to do, making the decisions that affect the rest of your life."

It was a familiar song and dance. One Rory had heard, one she'd even bought into many times in her life. That was her reason for coming home to begin with--to figure out where she was going. To set that next goal. So, how she'd ended up like...this, she wasn't sure. She wasn't even sure what _this_ was. She still had dreams and desires but...there was something more she wanted. Something she couldn't quite explain. Something she felt when she was with Dean. "Well, I'm still figuring them out as best I can," Rory said.

"Well, we want to help you figure them out," her grandmother said. "In _all_ areas. You've turned into a marvelous young woman and so we think it is only appropriate that the life you live here should reflect that on every level."

"Yes," her grandfather continued. "Socially and in the work force."

"You've always been supportive," Rory said, a little uncertainly. She glanced at her mother, who shrugged in equal uncertainty. "But I'm not changing things with Dean. At least, not the way you want."

The table lapsed into silence, her grandmothers lips pursed and her grandfather looking at her seriously for a moment.

"Well," her grandfather said finally, reaching for his wine glass. "right now we'll not talk about him."

"Yes, that's an issue for another day," her grandmother followed. "We want to help you with other things--social connections, a new place to stay, job-related opportunities, we'd like to help. Get you situated as a young and upcoming member of the elite circle."

The elite circle. Rory had never totally aspired to this, but she'd never run from it either. She knew her mother's disdain for it, but it had always been placidly interesting to her. Yale had opened her eyes up to the wonders and woes of that lifestyle and she had to admit, her days of socializing with Logan and his friends had been fun. Intoxicating, literally and figuratively. But her time on the campaign trail and her time in Detroit had grounded her in her career aspirations. She didn't care about social status. She cared about writing the news as best she could. She had given up the social elite along with Logan.

Her grandmother was smiling at her grandfather and the hair on Rory's arms began to prickle. Something was up. Something big. Something...and she couldn't be sure what. And she couldn't decide if she was looking forward to finding out or not.

"Well, I'm just trying to figure out where I want to go next," Rory said. "You know, the best step in my career."

"Exactly. And we want to help you on your way," her grandmother said.

 "Yes, very much so," her grandfather chimed in. "You have such wonderful potential, and we want you to be held back by nothing. We've thought long and hard about this, and we feel the timing is right."

Rory cocked her head, curious. Gifts were not uncommon, nor were they usually understated. But the way her grandmother smiled at her grandfather, almost a little giddy, if Emily Gilmore was ever giddy...

Her grandfather produced an envelope from his jacket pocket. He held it out, nodding at Rory to take it.

Tentatively, all too aware of the fact that her entire family was _staring_ at her, she got up, taking the envelope from her grandfather's outstretched hand.

She was shaking a little as she ran her fingers under the seal, though she was not sure why. Her breath quickened as she pulled out a single slip of paper: a check.

A check for twenty thousand dollars.

At first, she thought it was a mistake. A trick of the light. Maybe it said twenty dollars, maybe two hundred, even two thousand, but...twenty thousand?

Twenty thousand dollars?

"Is this...?" she tried to ask, too overwhelmed and confused to make sense of it. She looked up to her grandfather, smiling proudly, her grandmother blushing with excitement, her mother totally perplexed.

"What is it?" Lorelai finally prompted. "A gift certificate to Mina House of Nails? Ooh, maybe the title to a brand new _motor home_!"

The humor was lost on Rory. "It's a check," she breathed, looking at it again. She looked at the scrawl of her grandfather's handwriting. The zeroes after the two. "For twenty thousand dollars."

Her mother's mouth dropped open. "Are you serious?"

She held it out to her over the table and her mother took it, her jaw dropping. "You're giving her twenty thousand dollars?" she asked. "What's the catch?"

Her grandmother shrugged. "There is no catch."

Her mother laughed, shaking her head. "There's always a catch," she said. "I mean, with Chilton, with Yale, there was a catch. We could just call you Yossarian and be done with it."

"I wouldn't call dinner a _catch_," her grandmother said.

"Oh, it's a catch."

Rory could hear them, she was listening to them, but it didn't quite make sense. Not quite. Not quite with twenty thousand dollars and a catch that wasn't quite out there yet and what would she do with this much money at once?

"We want to give Rory the world," her grandfather interjected. "She's a bright girl. A special girl. We've always been more than willing to help her achieve her dreams. We've so enjoyed being a part of her coming of age and now we are eager to see what other wonderful things she has up her sleeve."

That left her mother speechless, which was really saying something, though Rory was still gaping like a fish herself because she'd gotten money from them before. Lots of money. Chilton and Yale were expensive, but this? A check to do _anything_? She'd never _seen_ the money before. It had never been hers to do with as she pleased. She'd never been allowed to spend carte blanche. And that had always been good with her because she wanted great things but she didn't like thinking about the price tag and money had never really been on her mind but maybe because it'd never had to be and twenty thousand dollars?

Her grandparents were watching her now, with those small smiles of excitement that they were so prone to when they were lavishing gifts upon her. Parties and dresses and checks for twenty thousand dollars.

"You don't have to know how to use it now," her grandmother told her. "Just know that you are meant for great things. Nothing should make you settle. Nothing and no _one_."

Rory caught her drift and she stiffened for a moment. "I can't promise you anything," Rory said. A further response rose in her throat and she swallowed it. That was a conversation she'd had with them before, one she didn't need to relive. Not now. Not with twenty thousand dollars in her hand. "I mean, I don't know what I want yet."

"And you don't have to," her grandfather swooped in. "Just know that you can."

That she could. She could do anything. The thing she'd always been told. That expectation. The complete and total trust that she was supposed to do more than normal people, that she was _better_.

She was so grateful for all of it, she was, because of the things she'd done, the things she'd accomplished.

This was what she needed. A proverbial kick in the butt. The catalyst to jump start her. No more Stars Hollow. No more Gazette. No more living at home and being just an average girl. Great things, special things. Her grandparents grand plan that had never worked out with her mother and now she could see it in their eyes: it might work with her.

Rory was used to expectation. She was used to living up to it. And she had twenty thousand dollars to do it. There was nothing else standing in her way. Nothing else stopping her.

"Thank you," she said. "You've always been so generous and so supportive and thank you."

She didn't know what else to say. She didn't know what else to do. She didn't even know what was out there for her, what was waiting for her right beyond the safe city limits of Stars Hollow.

And she was out of excuses to put off finding out.


	28. Chapter 28

A/N: So what is Rory to do with 20,000 dollars? And with Dean? There's so much left to tell! Anyway, thanks all :)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

It took her mother exactly two seconds into their trip home before she asked. "So, what are you going to do with it?"

Rory stared at the check still in her hands, looking over the numbers, all those zeroes and her grandfather's signature across the bottom. "I don't know," she said.

"You can do anything, you know," her mother said. "Travel the world, invest in stocks and bonds, give all the money to charity and become a hobo on the streets of New York. Ooh, or you could even start a collection of really old tea sets. I hear they've changed a lot through the ages. I bet you could find a lot of good ones with that much money."

Rory was hardly listening. She kept looking at that check. It felt so _heavy_, so impossibly heavy, and yet light enough that it might disappear if she looked away. "I don't want to disappoint them."

Lorelai scoffed. "You could never disappoint them," she said. "Me, I will always disappoint them. But you--you are the golden child. You will only make them happy."

"Even if I invest in antique tea sets?"

"_Especially_ if you invest in antique tea sets."

"What if I don't do anything?" Rory asked. "What if I never leave this town?"

"Are you kidding?" her mother said, and Rory glanced at her for the first time since they got in the car. "That would make them happier than anything else. As much as they want you to succeed, they want you close to them. I can't say I blame them."

She cocked her head. "Mom, I--"

"That's why you don't live your life for other people," her mother continued. "That's why we've always wanted you to do what you want to do."

"What if it doesn't make me happy?" Rory asked. "What if I do everything I want, do anything I can, and it still doesn't make me happy?"

"Aw, sweetie," her mom said. "I think you still don't know what you want. When you do, you'll know. You'll know."

And suddenly Rory felt like she was ten, like she was younger than ten, younger than she'd ever been. "Promise?"

Lorelai just looked at her for a long moment, and the look on her face spoke of nothing but love. "I promise."

-o-

In some ways, it was easier now. Dean was less evasive to her presence overall. He was less likely to shy away from would-be dates and didn't ask her to leave when she showed up at the stereo shop. Which was good, she supposed, but there was a certain finality to their interactions, if an ambiguous one. Like some door was half-shut between them, the boundaries solidified and clarified.

Really, she figured Dean had too many other things on his mind to worry about Rory's feelings for him--what with medical condition to maintain and a business to run and a family to support. He'd said his peace to Rory. He'd clearly made his peace with Rory. As far as Dean was concerned, the case was closed and their friendship could resume.

Too bad as far as Rory was concerned, that would never be enough.

Still, she had to respect the boundaries. She already felt responsible enough for Dean's medical meltdown and she couldn't bear to witness another episode, much less feel like the source of one.

Besides, things were changing--slightly and she could have been imaging it, but it certainly _seemed_ to be there. The way his face lit up when she came by to see him. The way he laughed as she helped him unpack his belongings and made his room his own. The way he said _yes_ when she asked him over for a Friday night movie, just her and him and her mother and Luke.

"And he said _yes_?" Lorelai asked.

Rory glared. "You could sound a little less incredulous," she said.

"But I thought Dean wasn't interested."

"We're _friends_," Rory said. "Friends can get together and watch movies. Besides, you and Luke will be there."

"Did you think about running that by me and Luke?"

"Come on," she said with light exasperation. "What else are you going to be doing?"

"Oh, that's right," her mother said. "I forgot that I have no life outside of you and that I've spent the last few years pining after my daughter to fulfill my pathetic solitary existence."

Rory let her shoulders drop and her forehead crinkle in an attempt to evoke sympathy. She had some daughterly prowess and she wasn't afraid to use it.

"That worked better when you were four," her mother said. "You know, back when your head was, like, a third of your body height."

"For Dean," Rory said finally. If she couldn't elicit sympathy for her own romantic plight, she could certainly exploit Dean--for all of their benefits. "Come on, he needs to relax and you know it."

Her mother's eyes narrowed. "That's low."

She barely contained her grin. "You know I'm right."

"For Dean," her mother said. "Only for Dean."

Rory leaned in, throwing her arms around her mother. "Thank you," she said. "You have no idea what this means to me."

"Yeah, yeah," her mother said dismissively. "You're just lucky I have a soft spot for hot younger guys that suffer from obscure medical conditions."

Pulling away, Rory stood. "Does Luke know that?"

Her mother laughed. "It's a fetish Luke shares."

"Are you sure you two have a healthy relationship?"

"At least we're on the same page," her mother countered. "I don't have to stoop to subterfuge to manufacture ways for Luke and I to be together."

"I never shy away from a situation to exercise my tenacity," Rory said with a flippant shrug. "By the way, I told Dean there'd be pizza."

"Well, if you told Dean, then I guess I better order."

"Yeah, I guess."

"You're kind of demanding."

"Just pick up the phone."

Her mother rolled her eyes, relenting. "We need to move you beyond having dates with your mother. The cool kids don't do that."

"I'm not cool."

"I suppose that's well established."

Rory sighed, moving toward her room. "I'll see you tonight."

Even from behind the closed door, she could hear her mother's chortle. "You're welcome!"

Flopping on the bed, Rory couldn't help but smile. Double date, pizza, and Dean. She was quite welcome, indeed.

-o-

It didn't occur to Rory until the doorbell rang that this might have been a bad idea.

After all, this was Dean. Dean who had an ulcer. Dean whose father died. Dean who had given up all his dreams and resigned himself to running the family business _forever_.

It was Dean who needed a night away and she'd invited him to pizza and a movie--which would be fine and dandy--but with her mother and Luke. Her mother who could scare small children with her endless chatter and who had a habit of not knowing how to turn on the filter from her brain to her mouth. Luke who had physically tried to manhandle Dean out of the diner and who had never thought that Dean was good enough.

And Rory. Herself. Rory who hadn't known how to say I love you and who had led him on time and time again only to let him drive away thinking that he wasn't good enough.

The last time they'd tried this, it had been a disaster. No, it had been more than a disaster. It had been Pippi Longstocking and Bop-It and Dean walking out rejected and Rory letting him.

What had she been thinking? She needed to avoid this. She needed a change of plans. She needed to get him out of the house and someplace neutral, someplace easier, someplace--

But by the time she reached the door, her mother was already closing it behind Dean. "My God," Lorelai was saying, "I think you've actually grown since I've seen you last."

"Maybe you're shrinking," Dean said with a shy grin.

"Hey, watch it," her mother said. "You were always the polite guy and I don't see why an ulcer would have to eat away your manners along with your stomach lining."

Dean grimaced a little. "That's a lovely image."

"Ha, yeah, and the pizza's already here. And we even order a few salads for those of us with holes in our stomachs."

Dean moved forward, looking toward Rory. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," she replied, feeling suddenly very overwhelmed by the situation. "You made it."

"Pizza and a movie with the Gilmores," he said with a shrug. "I figured if I didn't, Lorelai might track me down and torture me with random movie quotes."

"I plan on doing that either way."

"At least this way I'll know what you're talking about."

Luke came in from the kitchen, carrying a handful of beers in his hands. "You won't know what she's talking about no matter how hard you try," he said, holding out to Dean.

Dean took it with a chuckle. "How many years did it take you to figure that out?"

Her mother reached for her own and grinned. "Who says he's figured it out?"

Luke rolled his eyes, offering the last beer to Rory, and it suddenly occurred to her that she was still part of this scene. Out of place, a little perplexed, but clearly still there.

That didn't meant she had any idea what to say. She could barely manage to bring her hand up to accept the bottle.

Not that anyone else seemed to notice. "It's a certain form of masochism," Luke was saying, moving toward the living room.

"Aw," her mother said, following. "It has its perks."

Dean was moving in that direction, stopping as he neared her. "Thanks for inviting me over."

It now seemed she was supposed to speak. "Yeah," she said. "I just was hoping that it wouldn't be...awkward."

Which was true, but now, seeing him there, the only thing awkward was her.

"No, it's good," Dean said. "I got past awkward a few years ago with these two."

She just stared. "Right."

Dean fidgeted, clearly feeling the weight of Rory's uncertainty. "I guess CPR and head injuries opens a guy up to people."

"CPR?"

"You know, the electrocution? Surely you heard."

Yes, she'd heard. She remembered thinking about, thinking about how it could be a turning point in his life. She'd thought she'd known so much about him; she'd thought she'd known everything. "Yeah, I heard," she said. "Apparently, you have quite the reputation."

"Me and the summertime--synonymous with disaster."

"Well then, at least this year you tried something new."

"Keeping it real," he said.

"Very not fake."

He looked at her funny. "Are you okay?"

Was she okay? Was she? What did she know, anyway? She'd thought this was a way to help Dean relax, to help Dean want her more. She'd thought that she'd have to take control, to make sure he was okay, to make this situation feel normal.

Problem was, it _did_ feel normal. Her mother and Luke, her mother and Dean, Dean and Luke. The only person who didn't fit here was her.

"Yeah," she said. "It was a long day at work and all. Writing."

Dean nodded. "I feel your pain. Work never seems to go away." He paused, looking toward the living room. "Shall we?"

"Oh, yeah, of course," Rory said. "I just needed to go grab the popcorn. That's our appetizer before we dig into the pizza."

"What, no candy?"

"In our old age, we have moved it to after the meal."

"Very mature of you."

"What can I say, we're growing."

"I'm just surprised Luke's letting you eat pizza."

"It's half veggie."

"Seems right."

"So, I'll be right there."

He smiled at her, his eyes lingering on hers for a minute, before he turned and went into the living room.

Rory started to leave but she couldn't help but watch a moment longer as Dean settled himself on the floor, long legs crossed as he laughed, looking between her mother and Luke.

Even Luke chuckled, pulling a small drink of his beer while her mother prattled off on some story.

Her misgivings, her distance, gave way to hope. She may not have understood it, she may still need to ingratiate herself back into this group, but this was a group. This was as much her family as anything ever have been. Not just her and her mother. Not just the Gilmore girls and Luke. But Dean, too. He fit. He fit so perfectly with them and Rory could only hope that she could fit there, too.

-o-

Two movies, two pizzas, one salad, and three bags of candy later, she was walking Dean home. The night had been comfortable, so filled with laughs and banter that sometimes Rory felt as though it'd always been this way. Gone was the uncertainty between Dean and Luke. Dissipated was the distance between her mother and Dean. And, for a night, even the space between herself and Dean felt infinitely smaller.

No, this was quite the best night she'd had with Dean and it had little to do with her.

Which meant she might have every chance to capitalize on it.

It wasn't just about scheming; it was about taking it all to the next level. Things were moving in that direction and she wasn't about to let it end.

The walk to Dean's was familiar now, more familiar than her path downtown or even to the Inn. "So," she said. "You realize what you've been missing?"

"Friday Night Movies?"

"Gilmore style."

"Even better than I remembered," he said. "Though I had forgotten just how much commentary two people can give in four hours."

Rory beamed, leaning closer to him as they walked. "And we were just getting warmed off."

"Right, after, what? A four year hiatus?"

"You were here for the big reunion tour."

"I feel like I should ask for your autograph."

"I'll save you a t-shirt," she assured him.

They were in front of his house now, and Dean paused at the edge of the walkway, looking at her in the glow of the streetlights.

He licked his lips and shuffled his feet, swallowing a little.

Rory felt her anticipation rise. It had been very nearly a perfect evening. Not quite romantic, but a little more than friendly. There was an intimacy about it all in almost beyond platonic way. It felt more natural than before, more two-sided this time. She was sure of it.

"Thanks," Dean said, his eyes roaming the pavement beneath them. "I think I needed a night off."

"I told you it'd do you good," she said, hoping to keep her voice light, her intentions pure.

He glanced up at her, rubbing absently at the back of his head. "Yeah, all work and no play, I know," he said.

"Seriously," she told him. "You need to make sure you take a break from the stress. That's not just me talking; your doctor has told you the same thing."

Dean grunted a little. "What I really need is more hours in a day," Dean said. "There's more to running the store than I ever imagined. And do you know how much it costs to send someone to college?"

"I avoided looking at college bills," Rory said.

"Lucky you," Dean said. "I just...don't want to screw up."

"Dean," she began. "You're not--"

He shook his head, smiling. "I'm just being stupid," he said.

She let the moment linger, trying to see if Dean would elaborate, would say something more, _anything_. When he didn't, she scuffed her foot on the ground. "You know, you don't have to do all this alone," she said.

He actually laughed at that. "Are you going to bring out my long lost twin from the woodwork to help share the load of this family business? Audrey's too far away and has her own life to deal with. Clara's too young. My mother's too busy."

Rory shook her head. "No, I mean, you don't have to be so alone with it. One thing I've always learned, or maybe just always kind of known, is that when things are tough, that's when you need to talk about it. Talking is very therapeutic. It helps."

He was watching her, a little hesitant, a little bemused. "You mean Rory Gilmore has a _reason_ for talking? And here I thought it was just a nervous habit or some kind of perplexing and rare birth defect."

"I'm serious."

His expression fell and his shoulders sagged. "I'm just tired," he said.

"That's because you never take a moment to even stop and breathe," Rory told him. "You know you need to take care of yourself better and since you seem incapable of doing it, I figured I'd lend a hand."

He laughed a little, shaking his head. "Do you remember when we were younger and all I wanted to do was to hang out with you?"

Memory churned in her painfully and she tried not to let it show. "We were quite inseparable for awhile."

Nostalgia passed over his face. "I wanted every night, every Saturday, every Sunday. All I could think about was calling you, about being with you. All I could think about was you."

She hadn't expected it to hurt so much, to hear him say that, to hear him remember. To hear him say how much he had loved her, because it only reminded her of how uncertain he seemed about it now.

"And that weekend you had to build a house and you were all worried about your extra curricular activities," he said. "I was such an idiot."

"What? No, you weren't," Rory said. "You were right. I was nuts. Stuff like that, maybe it matters, but not like people. Not like spending time with people you care about."

"I must have been so annoying."

She'd actually thought him a bit stalkerish at times, but that was neither here nor there. Because she knew why. She knew now. She knew that it was all someone could do when they loved someone. "I was young."

"And I was dumb."

"You were never dumb," she chastised him. "You were young, too, and I just never appreciated how much you loved me."

He paused at that, taking a long minute to look at her. And for a moment, she could see it in his eyes. The words he wasn't saying. The words he wouldn't let himself say.

That he still loved her.

And worse, that maybe it wasn't enough.

That she'd had it all back then, everything she wanted now, but she'd just been too stupid to see it. Too young to recognize it. So she'd thought he was a stalker. So she'd thought he was the boring choice. So she'd thought he was safe and uninteresting and the guy she could always come back to which was why he was the guy she'd never go anywhere with. She'd flirted with Jess and she'd never invited Dean back to her grandparents and she'd done a thousand other things to make him think he wasn't good enough and now she was wondering why he'd gotten the message.

"Relationships," he said with a humorless chuckle. "Always full of drama."

"Which is why it's better we're friends," she said even though the words wanted to stick in her throat.

Resolve hardened on his face. "I had a good time tonight," he said. "Be sure to tell your mother thanks again. Luke, too."

She nodded tightly.

He offered her a slight smile. "I'll see you later, okay?"

"Yeah. Later," Rory agreed.

With one more smile, he turned away, moving up the street toward his house.

It wasn't until he had disappeared around the corner that she realized she was crying.


	29. Chapter 29

A/N: Okay, so this isn't the most exciting chapter of the bunch but it's an important one for Rory's thought processes as she sort of figures out what she's trying to do with her life. We're reaching the home stretch here :) Thank you!

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Life was really all about balance, she figured. It had taken her some years to figure that out--after all, her youth had been spent in varying degrees of intensity. It seemed like whatever Rory did, she _really_ did. There were no casual commitments for her--just full on insanity at every turn, whether that be school or family or friends.

It was hard to say, really, if that was the cause of her own personal neurosis or if it was her neurotic ways that led her to indulge in such a lifestyle. But the years living in Detroit had taught her a little something about peace and quiet--apparently a lack of a social life could do that for someone. And while it had been a bit lonely at times, it had also been oddly refreshing. To have _quiet_. It gave her time and space to think, which, considering the speed at which her thoughts cycled through her head, was really a good thing.

It also made her talk to her house plants. Well, house _plant_. Okay, her _cactus,_ because she killed everything else. She almost bought a goldfish, but she didn't want to be cruel to the thing. Her mother's success with Paul Anka notwithstanding, it was not a chance she would take in her bachelorette lifestyle.

The point was, in the end, that simplicity had its time and place in her life. Detroit may have been a bustling city, but somehow it was far more peaceful for her than Stars Hollow ever could be. Because what Detroit had in sheer number of people, Stars Hollow had in the purely eccentric. Turned out that eccentricities made for more insanity than plain people did.

Which was why when her mother was utterly ambiguous and when Dean was so hard to pin down, she needed something a little less climactic in her life.

Thank God for the Stars Hollow Gazette.

The low-key production, the mismatched and unprofessional staff, Ned's Hawaiian shirts and laments about his reporters--they were so reassuringly predictable that she'd really come to relish it.

So, after another night of confusion with Dean, she was more than eager to show up at work the next morning.

She got there in time to see Lyman chewing his pen cap, leaned back in a desk chair. Nancy was sitting opposite of him, looking at him blandly over a cup of coffee.

"Ask Rory," Lyman said as Rory approached. "She'll tell you."

"Ask Rory what?" she said, taking another seat.

"About the stereo shop," Lyman said. "Nancy here seems to think they're going under."

Rory's brow creased. So much for easing the pressure of her mind. Did everything in this town suddenly relate to Dean? "Going under?"

Nancy just rolled her eyes. "You're such a moron, Chuck," she said. "It doesn't take investigative reporting to figure out that they're in trouble. Small town shops never make much profit, anyway, especially not one as specialized as a stereo shop. And given the cost it takes to bury someone these days, you just have to figure."

Nancy just had to figure. She just had to figure what? What did she know about the stereo shop? What did she know about burying people? What did she know about _anything_? The surge of defensiveness that swelled in Rory was so unpredictable that she barely knew what to do with it. "Right, so you're just going to sit there and drink your coffee and _figure_ away some family's well-being?"

Lyman paled a little bit, clearly a bit sheepish that he'd brought up the topic with Rory at all. But Nancy was not so easily put upon. She smiled mirthlessly. "Honey, I'm not _figuring_ much of anything. I was merely making an observation. I know the Forester kid's your boyfriend and all, but that building's a prime location. Better space than this one. We'd be nuts not to be interested in their status."

Something clenched in Rory's chest. "Great, so the family suffers the loss of their father and you're sitting here thinking about their _building_? What about the _people_? And why do you think Dean's my boyfriend?"

This time Nancy laughed outright. "Oh, honey, it's _so_ obvious."

At that point, Rory wasn't sure what was offending her more. Nancy's typically sanctimonious attitude, the negative and cold speculation regarding the stereo shop, or the fact that somehow it was _obvious_ that Dean was her boyfriend. Because that attitude was nauseating from someone as ill-qualified as Nancy. Plus, the Foresters had already lost too much to be faced with that, and if it was so obvious, why couldn't Dean see it?

And who was Nancy to make such assumptions anyway?

Lyman was already backing away as discreetly as he could. He could see the outburst coming even before Rory herself seemed to realize that she was about to let it out.  

Nancy, for her oblivious part, had turned back to her paper.

"Obvious?" Rory asked. "It's obvious?"

Nancy just looked up at her, face scrunched with impatience. "The way you follow after him," she said dismissively.

"The way I follow after him," Rory repeated. "Did you figure that out with your extensive investigative reporting skills?"

The humor left Nancy's face. "No, all I had to do was _open my eyes_."

Maybe it was what she said. Maybe it was how she said it.

Rory didn't know. Rory didn't care.

All she knew was that Nancy Benton had been allowed to speak far too freely for far too long. And all she cared about was shutting her up once and for all. "Well, maybe you should look a little harder then and realize that two people who like to spend time together don't always end up dating, even if they want to. Maybe you'd realize that relationship are more complicated than they are in the fourth grade, which is pretty much where your mindset is clearly at with your petty comments and complete lack of sensitivity to other people. It's really rather remarkable that someone who fancies themselves to be a _reporter_ like yourself has really missed some of the most obvious stuff around. Like the fact that _no one_ likes you. Like the fact that this journalistic experience you tout was _twenty years ago_ for a barely regional station and you didn't even _last_ very long. Or the fact that you couldn't write your way out of a paper bag, which is why people like what I write far more than what you write. It's not because I'm new and young and flashy. It's because I know what I'm doing. Something you can't say with a straight face about your writing or your ability to judge people and perceive reality."

Nancy's face had turned stony, red and then pale and then just plain frigid. "You really _are_ the self-indulged little tart they say you are," she said. "You think you _own _this town and have the audacity to still act like you have no idea what the hell anyone is talking about. If you're _not_ dating that Forester boy, it's not for _your _lack of trying. It's because he's just not interested. And really, who can blame him? But it's better off, in the long run. With his failing business and your meager earnings here, you wouldn't have much of a life, would you?"

Insulting her was one thing. It was a verbal tete-a-tete, so really, she deserved such degradation, even if Nancy was completely wrong. Rory's own pride wasn't so strong not to recognize when someone else's was flaring in protest. Didn't mean she _liked_ it or agreed with it, but it was within the bounds of fair play.

Insulting Dean Forester, on the other, was not. Not by her. Not by his mother. Not by little old ladies who could be considered for sainthood.

Which was why Nancy Benton was going to get it.

Rory wasn't quite sure what she was going to do, but she was pretty sure it was going to involve biting and hair pulling, and Lyman could have his fantasies of a cat-fight fulfilled right before his very eyes.

"You...you self-righteous has-been!" Rory exploded. "You have no _right_!"

And just as she was about to lunge, something stopped her. Not her conscience, because that was pretty well out the window by that point. Not Lyman, who, to his credit, looked more horrified than actually amused at the moment. Nancy, in her past-prime glory, was just staring at her, more or less stunned.

No, it was Ned.

Hawaiian shirt sporting Ned. Her _boss_, which she sometimes could conveniently forget as he so rarely acted like it.

A quick arm around her waist and he was pulling her back. "Come on, now," he was saying. "You're better than this."

Rory noted, as she was squirming to get free, that he hadn't included Nancy in that statement.

Rory also noted, with much more satisfaction, that Nancy had pushed her chair back as far as it would go and looked more than a little alarmed. Apparently, an irate Rory was a force to be reckoned with.

"She's crazy!" Nancy exclaimed. "How can you let people like this _work_ here? Pretty unprofessional, even for _you_."

Rory lunged again, knowing full well she'd never get anywhere and that Nancy would never know just how lucky she was for that little fact.

Ned's grip held firm. "I'm going to deal with you later," Ned said. "Professionalism comes second to common courtesies, in case you've forgotten."

At least Nancy had the decency to look marginally chagrined.

"Lyman, make sure Nancy doesn't do anything stupid, okay?" Ned asked.

Lyman, sitting uncertainly on the fringe of the action, just raised his eyebrows. "What, like be a human being for once?"

"I don't need you in on it, too," Ned grumbled. Then he loosened his grip on Rory. "We need to talk."

Rory was still too angry to protest and now too frustrated to resist. She let Ned drag her backwards, her eyes never leaving Nancy's pinched face.

She was halfway in the room when she realized that Ned hadn't actually taken them to his office, like she might have suspected. Rather, he'd opted for the dark room, a rarely-used area these days with digital technology being what it was. They all served as staff photographers when the need warranted, though in truth, that was Ned's true passion, and he was the only one who even developed film in there at all.

The room showed the lack of use, too. Not to mention Ned's less than stellar housekeeping skills. It was dark and dank, as most dark rooms were, and it was coated with grime in most areas, littered with old negatives and chemicals.

It occurred to Rory that this was an odd choice for a discussion, even the bawling out she suspected she was about to get. Perhaps he didn't want to humiliate her in front of them. A fact for which she wasn't sure whether to be grateful or insulted.

Ned flicked on the light and chewed his finger nervously. "Rory, you can't go off like that," he said.

Rory's shoulders slumped. Losing control was one thing--being berated for it was another. Maybe if she hadn't been so justified, she'd feel different. She was not above taking the blame for her actions--her little incident with a boat that was not her own had made that abundantly clear to her. But this--this was different. She would have much rather taken a swing at Nancy, so really, Ned should be thankful she'd settled for a verbal barrage on the wench. "She had it coming," Rory said simply.

Ned ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I'm sure she did," he said. Then he laughed a little. "God, that woman's a Nazi sometimes. "It's people like her that make me wish I'd never gotten into journalism to begin with."

"She can't even write well," Rory muttered.

"She's got an old school style," Ned said. "She never got the memo that the inverted pyramid wasn't the only way to go. Even Dewey at least knows how to modify it for a meatier ending."

It wasn't so much that Ned was insulting Nancy that caught Rory off guard. It was the fact that Ned had just used a full-on journalistic term. Not a complicated one, true, but she'd pegged Ned for someone without any shred of real training. Any Joe off the street could buy a press and print a paper--it didn't require a degree, and a town like Stars Hollow would never demand one.

Ned was watching her, carefully, and then he grinned. "You're surprised that I even know that, aren't you?"

Her anger forgotten, she blushed.

He just grinned back at her. "Yeah, that's what most people think," he said. "Small towns are full of small town people and small town people may be sweet and all, but we aren't known for our academic know-how. My journalism degree didn't come from the Ivy League, you got me there, but UConn really isn't all that bad."

No, it wasn't really all that bad. In fact, it was pretty good. A lot more than she'd expected.

Ned was watching her. "Yeah, yeah," he said with a grin. "Who would have thought, right? With the paper I run, it's hard to tell if there's any journalistic integrity when you're covering the social happenings."

Rory felt herself blush. "It's not like that."

He just shook his head, still grinning. "It's okay," he said. "I know what you must think and no one can blame you on that one. This is Stars Hollow, though, so really, trying to have a successful paper _without_ a social page just doesn't cut it. I put the subscription count a little higher than my journalistic principles. It won't win me a Pulitzer, but it's paid the bills."

"I just," Rory tried to explain. "Don't you sometimes regret it? You know, sort of settling for something less than what you know you're capable of?"

"Who says I'm capable of anything? Better yet," Ned said with a knowing gleam in his eyes. "Who says that this is settling at all?"

"You write about who had lunch with who at Al's Pancake House," Rory said. "I just sort of figured."

"Well, then, why are you working here at all?" Ned countered. "A girl like you, no matter why you left your last job, I _know _you could have done more than this."

"I needed some time at home," Rory explained quickly. "Some time to get to know myself, to figure out what I really wanted in life."

"So, you had your reasons," he said. "Even if they don't always make the most 'sense' to everyone around you."

The parallel was not lost on her.

"People aren't always what you think," Ned said. "Like you. I thought you'd be good for business. You can't lose by employing the town's golden girl. But you--you've got heart, Rory. You don't just want to make money, you don't just want to do a _job_. You care. About everything. The way you can write about this town--it's remarkable. Everything you cover, there's a reason you're so much better at it than anyone else here."

She cocked her head. "And why's that?"

"Because you care about this town," he said. "You learned the most basic lesson a journalist really should learn. That we don't cover events. It's not really even about the news. It's about the people. That's why you're doing your best writing here. You may be covering the most insignificant events of your career, but you're telling stories that people care about."

And really, what was she supposed to say to that? Thank you? You're nuts? Because the old guy wasn't nuts--well, he _was_ nuts, his tacky shirts and doughnuts, but he wasn't nuts about that. He was right about that in a way that Rory had never considered. The simple fact that people write what they know, they write what they know best, and that Rory hadn't had this much _fun_ writing articles since the initial thrill she got back at Chilton. No, no calls to the governor, no nationwide scandals to report, but the ins and outs of Stars Hollow.

Her stepping stone.

She smiled a little. "Is that why you're here?"

"Me?" he said. "I just want to pay off my little house and stay at home with my wife. I've been in this business too long. Worked with too many Nancys and had to print too many social blurbs. People think Miss Patty knows what's what around here, but I'm telling you, if you want to know about the latest gossip around town? I'm the go-to guy, and I've spent enough time in everyone else's business. Now. You think you can go back out there without causing a fit?"

Rory nodded with an air of resignation. "If she can play nice, I can, too."

"I know we all have our causes worth fighting for, but was that one really worth it?"

The disparaging comment about Dean and his family was fresh in her mind. She'd heard Dean be insulted before, that much was true, and it'd been hard then, but if she was honest with herself, it had been hard more in the way it reflected on her. She hadn't wanted her grandparents to insult Dean because she wanted them to think she had good taste in boys. She had liked Dean so much in those days, not so much because she had a deep understanding and respect of who he was, but she liked how having a boyfriend made her look.

But now--now there had been so much time and heartache and so much triumph. Now, she was offended on Dean's behalf.

"Yes," she said with a nod. "It was definitely worth it."

Ned just shook his head. "Damn kids and their damn gumption," he muttered. "I'm too old for this. My journalism degree is too old for this."

At that, Rory couldn't help but grin. "I'll buy you a doughnut and it'll be all good."

"Bear claws?"

"And jelly filled. I'll make it a dozen."

"I knew I didn't make a mistake hiring you."

And Rory knew it, too.


	30. Chapter 30

A/N: I had to get this up now or I wouldn't get it up until after the weekend. This means reviews have not been replied to as of yet, but I will work on it over the weekend. They are all appreciated :) There is much Dean in this chapter, so I hope you all like it.

CHAPTER THIRTY

As much as she resented Nancy's insinuations regarding Dean, that didn't mean that Rory was oblivious to everything the woman had said. After all, she had learned in all her years here, that though gossip was clearly overblown and barely a fragment of the truth, there was still that fragment of truth that was to be reckoned with.

She just needed to delete the adjectives and she'd have the truth. Atticus Finch was a wise man.

Which meant there was something to worry about when it came to the stereo shop. Which meant there was something to worry about when it came to Dean.

She wondered what Atticus would have told Scout about how to get her ex-boyfriend to talk to her.

Though the idea of Scout having a boyfriend--

Oh, who was she kidding. He'd just say to walk around in his skin for a bit and she'd figured it out from there.

And the dumb thing was that it really was that simple. Dean was stressed, _beyond_ stressed. He'd given up all his dreams and aspirations to come home, his father had died, his mother was a controlling whacked-out pessimist, and now Dean was saddled with a business that was his father's dream and his family's only income. Add in the health problems and yep. It was pretty obvious.

For once, this really wasn't about Rory. Dean had too much to think about to worry about confessing it all. He had far too much on his plate to really recognize that he needed to take the time to relax, to vent his frustrations. Moreover, Dean was a _guy_ and she had found, in her experience, that guys did not like to sit around and cry over a gallon of ice cream when things got too tough (which, was really to their detriment emotionally but perhaps to their benefit physically).

Dean simply didn't have time to hang out with her like he used to. Especially if things at the shop were as sketchy as town gossip made it out to be.

So, who would know more about this? She could ask anyone and she was sure she'd rustle up something, but she needed an accurate source. Someone who Dean saw a lot and who Dean trusted--

Luke. Luke and Dean's wheat bagel with low-fat cream cheese. Luke's counter practically pulled information out of its visitors' mouths and no matter how hard Luke tried to fight it, he was the ideal listener. Almost like a bartender, minus the beer, and add in the rough around the edges goodness that made Luke _Luke_.

Besides all that, Dean obviously trusted Luke, which was a mystery Rory still was not entirely privy to, much to her dismay and frustration.

Luke, it was.

Fortunately, the walk to Luke's was short and the place was in a late morning lull with just a visitor or two seated at tables. Rory made her way to the counter, striving to look innocuous. That really should have been an easy feat, as Rory seemed to have a girlishness about her no matter what she did. In fact, people rarely considered her capable of scheming at all--unless that person was Paris.

"You look sketchy," Luke said turning over a mug in front of her.

Her wiles were also apparently quite obvious the minute she tried to conceal them.

She didn't need wiles with Luke. "So, I was wondering."

"No," Luke said quickly.

"I haven't said anything." Rory protested.

"You said enough," Luke replied. "I caught onto the wondering ploy with April and your mother is surprisingly fond of it, too."

"But you don't even know what I want."

"I know it's something I probably don't want to give. If you thought I'd say okay, no questions asked, you'd have no need to wonder."

Logical, perhaps, but Rory had no time for logic. "It's just a question."

"No."

"About Dean."

That made him pause. "Dean?"

"Yes, Dean."

"What about Dean," Luke said. "I saw him earlier today. He came in before he went to work."

"You talked to Dean?"

Luke just raised his eyebrows. "People do tend to do that when they come in here," he said.

"But what did he say?"

"Have you always been this nosy and I just didn't notice it before?"

"I'm serious," she said.

"So am I," he countered.

She sighed. "He won't talk to me," she said. "He's hurting and he won't tell me about it. And then I was at the Gazette's office and Nancy was talking about the stereo shop and some kind of financial trouble, but Dean's barely said anything_. _He just shuts down. I worry about him."

Luke licked his lips, seeming to compose himself. The snarky facade fell away and Rory could see the weariness in his face. "I worry about him, too."

"So, what did he tell you?" Rory prompted, jumping on Luke's sudden transparency.

"Don't you think it's Dean's place to tell you things if he wants to?"

"But I'm his _friend_," Rory protested. "I need to help him."

"He'll talk when he's ready," Luke told her. "He'll tell you what he needs to tell you. You can't rush that. You shouldn't."

"But he'll talk to you," Rory pointed out. "Why will he talk to you?"

"Is it so hard to believe that maybe he trusts me?"

Rory's mouth opened and quickly shut again. Yes, it _was_ hard to believe. It was nearly impossible to fathom, to understand, and in everything she'd been through since she'd gotten back, in everything she'd learned about Dean, in everything he'd told her, he'd shown her, she still didn't get it. She still didn't totally know what happened in the years they'd been apart. She still didn't know why Luke was so invested, why her mother was so intuitive about him. Why everyone else seemed to have some inherent _in_ with him that she'd always taken for granted.

"He cares about you a lot," Luke said finally. "There are a lot of things he wants to say to you, wants to admit to you. But maybe that's part of the problem. History isn't just a good thing. It can be a problem, too."

"But I want to help him," Rory said. She _needed_ to. Because she was pretty sure she loved him and knowing that he was hurting hurt her, too. Knowing he was opening up to other people nearly killed her.

"Trust me when I say he's not ready yet," Luke said. "He may be talking a little bit to me, but he's nowhere near coping with this. But it's like he needs to break on his own time and we can't rush that no matter how much we want to."

First her mother, now Luke. "Since when did you become a fountain of wisdom?"

Luke's eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Since when did you become so emotionally needy?"

"Always have been," Rory said. "You've just been too closed off to notice. You liked your manly persona."

He scowled. "It's not a persona."

"You're a teddy bear in sarcastic clothing."

"You can leave now."

"You know it's true," Rory said.

Luke just shook his head, turning back toward the kitchen. "Goodbye, Rory."

She couldn't help but grin. "Goodbye, Luke."

-o-

She had to wait for Dean to talk to her, that much was true. If she wanted to know his feelings, there was nothing she could do to force that out of him. Worse yet, there was little gossip that she could trust to really give her an accurate gauge on what stage of grief he was currently working his way through.

That didn't mean she had no recourse, though. His emotional status may have been an enigma, but his actual status was not. Point being, the rumors about the stereo shop.

Time for her to exert her journalism prowess. And what better what to find the fact than to go straight to the source.

Timing was everything.

She had some writing to do that afternoon and she'd promised her mother to stop by the inn to help do some restaging in one of the bedrooms. Add on a dinner with her mother and by 7:30, she knew where she had to be.

Not only was she sure she'd find Dean at the store, but it was a Wednesday evening. Considering that Wednesday was a designated family night and two out of three churches hosted youth group, it was unlikely that the shop would be busy. In fact, Wednesdays were her most likely option to drag him out of work early and if she showed up at the right time, he might even let her help with stocking.

All of this was a perfect backdrop to her true purpose: figuring out if Dean's situation was as dire as Nancy had suggested.

As expected, she found Dean in the shop, in his position behind the counter. When she went in, he was thanking a teenaged girl for her purchase. Rory passed the gum-snapper who appeared to have purchased some iPod accessories on her way to the counter.

"You allow gum in the shop?"

"Who do you think I am, Taylor?"

"I just wouldn't think that scraping gum off the floor would be fun."

"Why do you think Gilbert's on staff?"

"Clever, and disturbingly dictatorial," Rory said. "Busy night?"

Dean made a face. "You know Wednesdays are dead."

Yes, she did. But she didn't have to let on. "I thought maybe there had been a sudden town-side need for speakers."

"I can wish," he said with a sigh and Rory saw her opening.

"Aw, surely your bottom line isn't hurting that much," she said. "If it is, I might be able to stage some very selective robberies in order to deprive the locals of their prime stereo equipment thus necessitating a need for more."

"You'd start up a string of B and E's for me?"

She smiled glowingly. "Anything to help support my favorite stereo shop."

"Well, I can't condone something that would get you five to ten, but it might be nice to have the boost."

"Is the shop struggling?"

He sighed. "Not really," he said.

"Dean." He was holding back, not telling her everything. It was probably part of that guy mentality and part of Deans newfound inability to be open about anything he was feeling.

"We're pulling the same numbers as before," Dean said. "But we're broke. Not the store, but us. You know how people tell you to buy life insurance?"

"What's life insurance?"

"Buy it," he advised. "As much as you can. All the details that come after, they're expensive. And there are just things to pay off and all our funds are tied up here with keeping inventory stocked and mortgage payments up."

Well, that was what Rory had wanted to know. But now she didn't know what to say.

"I shouldn't even be talking about it," he said. "You have better things to think about."

"No, Dean," she said quickly. "You need to talk about this stuff. I mean, you shouldn't be dealing with it on your own."

"Nah, I've got it," he said. "I mean, I've run the numbers and I know what we need to keep things going. And we're staying up with it. I had to re-negotiate some stuff at the bank, but I keep thinking if I can bump up the profits here just a little then I can ease the burden at home. You know, help Clara not have to take so many college loans."

"And your major was engineering?"

Dean laughed a little. "I had to pick up the business stuff quick. My dad--" Dean's voice got strangled and he swallowed hard. "My dad showed me a lot of it before he--"

The statement hung unfinished and Dean looked a little pale.

"Yeah," Rory interjected desperately. "That's good. I mean, it sounds like you're doing good. With the business. You're doing good with the business."

He sort of looked at her, like he wasn't sure what she was talking about.

Rory couldn't blame him. She wasn't sure what she was talking about either. "Do you want to get out of here?" she blurted.

His brow creased.

"I know you usually stay open later and I'm sure you have stocking everything but, I don't know. Maybe tonight's just a good night to blow it off."

"Since when does Rory Gilmore blow off anything?"

"People change," she said with a shyly provocative smile.

He seemed to consider that before he licked his lips. "Just tonight," he agreed.

It took all her resolve to hide her surprise. "Just tonight."

-o-

The park was beautiful. It was always lovely, of course, but it felt different tonight. Dean felt different.

Maybe it was the truth about the shop and how hard he was working. Maybe it was the rumors that didn't give enough credit. Maybe it was all of it and none of it and a whole lot else Rory probably would never understand.

Things like parents dying and familial obligation. Things like never being good enough and worst-case scenarios.

Dean was quiet, walking next to her, so close she could feel his warmth.

They were away from the road now and the park was quiet, too. She wasn't sure where they were going or even who was leading. Some things, she figured, were just meant to happen. And tonight, she wasn't sure what it would bring, but tonight was one of those nights.

It was Dean who sat down, which should have been clue one to Rory. Dean never wanted to sit. Sitting was so much a waste of time, time that Dean never seemed willing to sacrifice.

But it was one of those nights.

"What a night, huh?" Rory said because apparently all that Ivy League education and speech-giving experience meant nothing when it came to passing the evening with an ex-yet-hopefully-would-be boyfriend.

"Yeah," Dean said, rubbing his hands on his thighs. "What a night."

"You should try to enjoy more of them," Rory said. "We have quite a few nights here."

"They usually follow the daytime."

"Good to see all those long hours aren't sapping your sense of humor."

Dean laughed. "It's always important to laugh," he said. He paused, licking his lips. "I know you probably couldn't tell now, but my family used to have family game night. My mom said it was good to bring us together. To make us laugh together."

It was hard to imagine now, but Rory could remember an earlier time when she'd first met the Foresters. Before she'd broken Dean's heart and helped break his marriage. She remembered family dinners, pot roast and mashed potatoes and the way that May had smiled with an air of exasperation at her husband and reminded Clara to chew before she swallowed. Those times had been very rare, too rare, and it seemed almost like a different life for her. "I'll bet your mother was killer at charades. She's great with facial expressions."

"Clara always wanted to play Mall Madness."

"Oh, a sale at the Electronics Store," Rory recalled.

Dean was smiling, nodding, staring out across the park. "My dad liked Mouse Trap. He thought it was a good lesson in construction. Drove my mom nuts because he always talked about how we could make it better. More creative."

And where had Rory been? When Dean had spent Friday Nights with them, killed their spiders, and changed their water bottles, where had she been? Why had she not come to game night? Why had she not known about it?

"He helped with me with your car, you know. We spent hours on it," Dean said, and Rory felt her stomach tighten. "He always said that you must be quite a girl if you were worth all that."

That one hurt--a lot. The car. The car she had accepted from Dean. The car she had accepted from Dean and let Jess drive and let Jess crash--

She had been so worried about Dean being angry that she hadn't really stopped to think about why.

"He taught me all of that," Dean was saying. "He's the reason I could do anything with a car, anything with electronics. The college thing--I never could have done it without him. Even when my mother was so disappointed and didn't want to talk to me--my dad, he cared. You know? He didn't make me feel like I sucked, and--"

Dean was rambling, in a very Gilmore way, in a way that she wasn't used to coming from him and she was trying to process that along with all her own failings and all her own longings when it happened.

Rory didn't know much about grief. She didn't even know much about pain. She didn't know what it was like to lose someone you loved, to lose them _forever_. Death had a permanence about it that was blessedly foreign to her.

She also didn't know much about sacrifice. So, she probably didn't know much about love. And in that moment, she realized that she still probably didn't know a lot about Dean Forester.

But she knew enough to see that he was about a heartbeat away from falling apart. Not just a little, not just for a moment, but completely. She knew it was because he'd gotten married too young, given up his dreams of a career, had his father die, and found himself stuck in a life he didn't want full of expectations he could probably never fulfill.

And he just couldn't do it.

"Dean," she said gently, moving closer. She'd done this before. Tried this comforting before. But this time was different. She was different, and he was ready.

"He's never coming back," Dean said, his voice strained. "He's never coming back and I'm never getting out. This is all I have and all I'll ever have. And I just...I don't--"

And that was it.

The tears came first, streaking down his cheeks as his body hunched over with the first sob. Then another.

As her arm went around him, supporting him, it all broke free and his cries followed one on top of another until he was shaking with it.

It scared it. It unnerved her. This wasn't a role she was used to playing.

But Dean needed her.

Her other arm encircled him, and he curled in closer to her, his face buried in her shirt.

It was awkward and uncomfortable. He was too large for this and it made her arms ache. But she didn't let go. Wouldn't let go. Not until he was done; not until Dean was ready.

As his sobs drifted into the night, she wondered why she'd never been here, never done this, wondered how she could live over a quarter of a century and still not know how to be the shoulder someone could cry on, how she could have so little compassion for the world around her. She was about success and achievements and she sometimes did good things to get there. But she had so rarely given of herself just to give.

Maybe this is what she'd been missing. Maybe this was everything she'd been missing. She couldn't win Dean back by artificial means. She needed to do the things _he_ needed.

Stroking his head, feeling his body trembling against hers, she just hoped she could figure out what that was.


	31. Chapter 31

A/N: So where does Rory go from here? Some readers have speculated about stuff to come in this chapter, though I can say this was written a long time ago :) Thanks!

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

That night, she walked him home. Not because he asked her to, because he still hadn't said a word since it started. Instead, she had been the one to coax him up, to lead him with an arm snug around his waist.

It seemed like there should be things to say, things to make it better. Reassurances. Cliches. Something.

With all of her journalistic flair, she could think of nothing.

So they walked in silence, Rory close to him, Dean's head dangling low enough to obscure his red-rimmed eyes.

At his porch, he stopped them, using one hand to wipe purposefully at his face, clearing away what he could of the tears and emotion. "I'm sorry," he said finally.

"Dean, you have no reason to be sorry."

He didn't look at her. "This isn't what I do," he said.

"Hey, we all need to do it sometimes," Rory said. "And you've been here for me."

"I never meant--I mean, I never meant to burden you," he said. "You're a good friend, and I--"

"That's what friends do," she said. "It goes both ways, okay?"

She could see his brow furrowing, as if he were trying to make sense of something. "I need to get some sleep," he said. "I have work in the morning."

"Sleep is good," she agreed hollowly.

He pulled away from her, still refusing to look at her. "Goodnight, Rory."

He still sounded sad. He sounded broken. He sounded like the world was crumbling and he didn't know what to do. He still _needed_. He probably didn't need her but he still needed someone and she seemed to be the only one around who was listening to him at all.

But what could she say? What could she do? She'd been there, she'd held him, she'd comforted him and he said goodnight.

A good person would know what to say to make it better. A good person would stop him, make him talk, find some way to let him know that it was going to be okay.

Maybe Rory wasn't a very good person.

"Goodnight, Dean," she said, watching him climb the stairs. He didn't look around when he closed the door behind him.

-o-

Dean didn't call.

She'd really expected him to. It would have been a very Dean thing, and she needed a Dean thing. Dean things assured her that all was right with the world. That she'd done the right thing. That she hadn't made everything ten times worse.

A day went by, two, before she called him. It was more than she could take; the ambiguity of their relationship was daunting enough as it was, and this newfound layer was one she simply didn't know if her sanity could abide by any longer. She was surprised to find him awkward and tentative, almost feeling her out, like they were first dating again. Only without any of the enthusiasm.

"So, how are you?" she prompted finally, wishing she'd done this face to face so she could at least _see_ him.

"Okay," he replied, and she realized she didn't have to see him to know how much his shoulders were slouching. For such a big guy, Dean had a real talent for shrinking himself when the situation called for it. Or when his psyche seemed to deem it prudent.

"Good," she said, even though she knew it was a lie. Dean wasn't really okay, no more okay than she was, and she wasn't okay.

A pause lingered. "Look," he said. "Rory. About the other night."

"It was nothing," she interjected quickly, almost desperately, though she wasn't sure who she was trying to protect.

"No, I mean, I just wanted to thank you."

Now that one made her pause. No, it downright _floored_ her. "Thank me?"

"For being there. For...seeing me like that. I don't usually do that, you know? And being back here, being with my family, sometimes it feels like there's no one here to open up to, to be myself with. I can't handle it all on my own. I tried, right? And we saw how well that worked out."

"It wasn't so bad," Rory said without thinking.

Dean scoffed. "I ended up in the hospital with an ulcer."

"Yeah, okay, so maybe it wasn't _great_."

"Rory, you're missing my point," he said. "You were there for me. I needed someone, and you were there. Thank you."

It was a simple and as complicated as that: she'd been there for him. She hadn't known what to say, she hadn't known what to do. She'd wanted to do more, to do less. She'd wanted to stay forever, to run away. But she'd _been there_ and he wanted to say _thank you_.

"No problem," she said, her voice soft.

"Well, I'll see you, okay?"

"Okay."

She was still holding the phone to her ear as the call ended. Still holding it like a lifeline to Dean.

After everything, after all her advances and exploits, he just was glad she was there.

For the first time, the door was open. But this time, she knew that the only way to get through was to wait for him to invite her in. All her pushing and prodding would get her nowhere.

Too bad patience was a virtue that the Gilmores didn't have.

For Dean, though. Maybe for Dean.

Then she realized. The door was open. Patience was a virtue she didn't need when she had twenty thousand dollars and the answer to both their problems.

-o-

It was late and her mother was asleep, but her mother was never too asleep for her.

At least she wouldn't be after Rory woke her up.

She was many things, but subtle wasn't one of them, and she slid into bed next to her mother and spoke into the darkness. "Are you awake?"

Lorelai huffed a breath. "Not if I can help it," her mother mumbled without opening her eyes.

"You can't help it," Rory prompted her.

Her mother didn't move, didn't open her eyes. "Are you in trouble?"

"No."

"Are you pregnant?"

"No."

"Is the house on fire?"

"And if I say yes?"

"Then call 9-1-1 and tell them to book it because someone's asleep on the second floor."

"I know what I need to do," Rory said, unwilling to prolonged this any longer.

"About home fires?"

"About Dean."

That got her mother's attention and her eyes snapped open. "You know what to do about Dean?"

Rory just grinned. "I do."

"What happened?" Lorelai asked, pushing herself up a little to look at Rory.

"Well, you know how he broke down a few nights ago."

"Yeah," her mother said.

"I finally talked to him."

"And?"

"And he thanked me," Rory explained. "He thanked me for being there."

"That's great, honey," her mother said.

"So, it got me thinking."

"In the middle of the night?"

Rory ignored her. "I know how to show him how much I care."

"And you couldn't figure it out in the morning?"

Rory persisted. "I'm going to give him the money."

Lorelai's mouth opened and closed and she blinked once. "You...what?"

"I'm going to give him the money," Rory said again, proud.

"Are you sure? I mean, that's _your_ money."

"To do what I want with," Rory said. "And I don't need it. I mean, it's nice and it'd help but I can get a job without it. And Dean--they've got medical bills and funeral expenses and the store and he just needs it so much more than I do and it would help him out and show how much I care about him."

"And what would you tell your grandparents?"

"I'll tell them the truth. That it's going to a very worthy cause."

"Well, I'm not sure they'd agree."

Rory rolled her eyes. "You're the one who told me that anything meant _anything_."

"Of course I did, honey," her mother said. "And of course I think that."

"Well, this is what I want to do. It'll help Dean out and if Grandma and Grandpa don't like it, then they can just think twice before doling out another twenty grand to me."

"Yeah, this might hamper their meager humanitarian efforts," her mother agreed. "But what about Dean?"

"What about him? It'll give him the chance to breathe, which he's so clearly needed."

"Yeah, but do you think he'll want it?"

"It's not about wanting it," Rory said. "It's about needing it."

"I just want to make sure you've thought about this."

"Of course I've thought about it," Rory said happily. "It's perfect. The perfect gesture, the perfect use of the money, and we all win."

"You know, if he thanked you for just letting him cry, imagine what he'd do for you when you give him twenty thousand dollars," her mother said with a suggestive grin.

Rory batted her mother. "Ew. Mom."

"Oh, come on," Lorelai said, then her face contorted and her voice dropped in her pathetic excuse for a Dean impression. "_Rory, I don't know how to thank you for this wonderful gesture._"

Rory just rolled her eyes. "You mock me."

"_Let me just unbutton my shirt while I contemplate how eternally grateful I am for your amazing generosity._"

Casting her mother a glare, Rory rolled out of the bed. "You're making this dirty."

"_Perhaps I should consult my bulging biceps to figure it out!_"

"What do you know about his bulging biceps?"

"You haven't seen them?"

"I've speculated."

"Oh, kid, let me tell you, you're missing out."

Rory made a face of incredulous disgust. "You're beginning to frighten me."

"Jealousy does not become you."

"I'm going to go to sleep and hope this is a bad dream."

"Be sure to turn off the lights!" her mother called after her.

Over her shoulder, Rory called back, "With pleasure!"

-o-

She still wasn't sure how she'd managed to get him out of the stereo shop for dinner, but she had him, and she sort of figured at this point that it was fate. It had to be fate. Fate that gave her twenty thousand dollars and Dean for the night.

The entire thing made her anxious in an excited sort of way. Like a first date or a big dance or an anniversary or the start of something fantastic.

Fate was on her side. Finally. So much so she'd even made him dinner. Made it. Not quite from scratch, but there was cooking involved and even baking in the most rudimentary sense of the word.

Her mother and Luke were out for the night and Dean looked almost relaxed.

"I still can't believe you cooked," Dean said, scraping his plate with his fork.

Rory just grinned, shifting in anticipation in her seat. "I had some help from Betty Crocker."

"Well, it's very impressive," Dean said with a grin. "I appreciate the night out."

"Good," Rory said. "I wanted it to be special because I have something special I wanted to discuss with you."

He cocked his head uncertainly. "Something special?"

Rory rubbed her hands together. "I was going to wait until after we had dessert because I made these brownies and bought some ice cream but what the heck," Rory said. "We might as well do it now."

Dean's forehead wrinkled. "Rory, what are you talking about?"

Rory pulled the envelope out of her pocket and held it out. "This," she said. "I'm talking about this."

He looked more than a little skeptical and he hesitated before he took the envelope from Rory's outstretched hand. Glancing at her again, his long fingers ran under the flap.

Excitement flared in her and she gnawed her lower lip, watching his face intently.

There was uncertainty, then confusion, and then...hurt?

"Rory, what is this?" he asked.

"It's a check."

"I can see it's a check."

"That way you don't have to worry about the expenses," she said. "I know it's been difficult lately and my grandparents gave me this money and I thought you could use it, that your family could use it and it would ease the burden and you could relax and..." Her voice trailed off. Dean was looking at her. Incredulously. And something else. Something... "You're not happy," she said. "Why aren't you happy?"

"So, you thought you'd give me twenty thousand dollars?"

"You deserve it," she said. "You can use it--"

He shook his head, laughing a little breathlessly. "I don't need your money."

"No, but I thought--"

"You thought what? That I couldn't do it on my own?"

"Of course not," Rory said. "I just thought I could make it easier. You know, be there for you."

"Twenty thousand dollars worth of being there?"

"Dean, you told me about your expenses--"

"Because I needed someone to talk to, not because I needed money."

"I know you didn't ask for it, but that's sort of why I thought it'd be a good idea. To show you how much you mean to me, and--"

"So, what, you wanted to buy me? Give me twenty thousand and then what? We date? I owe you two nights a week?"

And that one hurt and Rory felt her eyes well up. "That's not what this is," she said. "I just wanted to help you."

Dean's eyes also flashed with pain and his jaw set tightly as he looked down. "I thought you understood," he said finally, his voice quiet.

"I thought I did, too," Rory said. She really had, too. She had tried so hard. She had done this for Dean, to make Dean happy, and it had been big, twenty thousand dollars big and all she'd done was hurt Dean's feelings. It was like three steps backwards and it was her fault and she didn't really know why.

"It's not about money," Dean said. "I can do that part on my own. What I need--Rory, the other night meant so much to me because for the first time in a long time, someone listened to me. Someone cared about me. There wasn't any expectation, there wasn't any sense of disappointment, there was just someone who let me talk, okay?"

"Oh," Rory said. Her eyes wandered from his downcast face to the dishes on the table to her lap. It wasn't about the money. She had wanted it to be about the money. The money had made her feel better, it had helped her, and she had just thought she could do the same for Dean. But Dean wasn't her. "I just. I. I'm sorry."

Dean swallowed. "I shouldn't have freaked out," he said. "I just thought you understood."

She nodded. "I didn't mean to insult you."

With a sigh, Dean rubbed a hand over his face. "I know," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry," she said. On every level.

His mouth quirked into a smile. "I know," he said. He took another deep breath. "The dinner was great."

"Thanks," she said meagerly.

"Can I take a rain check on those brownies?"

"Yeah," she said. "Sure."

Standing, he looked at the check again before holding it out to Rory. "I'll call you, okay?"

It took all Rory had not to cry as she took the check back. "Yeah," she said. "Okay."

He chewed his lip for a moment longer before he saw himself to the door. Normally, Rory would follow, would see him out, even walk him home because at the moment she couldn't really move, didn't really _want_ to move.

This had been it. Her brilliant plan. Her chance to prove her love.

Instead, she'd insulted him, hurt him, and now she had to realize that she didn't know enough about love, about wooing, about _Dean_.

And now she was back to square one.

She sighed. It was going to be a long night. She might need to eat all those brownies herself.


	32. Chapter 32

A/N: Ack, I almost forgot to post! So I'm sorry this is late and that I haven't done review replies. I wish I had more of an excuse rather than life is just really busy, but that's the best I have. I can't believe we're reaching the home stretch with this one--thanks to everyone for the lovely reviews :) You all make me very happy.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

When her mother found her a few hours later, Rory had gorged herself on half the pan of brownies and an unhealthy portion of the ice cream. She wasn't crying, which was about the most positive thing Rory could come up with about that given moment, but she was depressed, miserable, confused and otherwise not happy.

Her mother stood watching her for a moment, almost like she was waiting, before she moved forward and took a seat across from Rory. "Didn't go well, huh?"

"What makes you say that?" Rory asked.

"You've eaten enough food to probably feed a small country."

"I like brownies."

"Yes, well, we passed the _like_ stage after you demolished four of them. We skipped over love at eight of them and went right on into comfort eating as you conquered half the batch."

"I stopped cutting them as pieces an hour ago."

"Another bad sign," Lorelai said. She reached for the pan, smiling a little as she took it away from Rory. "You care to tell me why my daughter is going to need to invest in a new wardrobe tomorrow?"

"He didn't take the money," Rory said.

Her mother waited for a second before prompting her. "And?"

Rory shrugged. "He didn't want the money," she said. "He said it wasn't about money, that he could do it himself, that he didn't want it."

"Well, I can sort of understand that," her mother said cautiously. "But surely that's not what brought about the great brownie raid of 2011."

"I thought I had it figured out," Rory continued. "You know, how to make Dean happy. How to show him that I cared about him. I mean, I did try to give him twenty thousand dollars. But it just made him unhappy. Upset. I think I insulted him."

Lorelai seemed to wince a little and she sighed. "I think sometimes you don't really understand money," she said. "The effect it can have on people. Money is just such a touchy thing."

"It's not that I don't believe he can do it."

"I know that, kid."

"I just wanted to help him."

"Maybe that's just not the help he needs."

"But he does need it," Rory protested. "He's told me that."

"Yeah, but maybe that's not the help he needs from you," her mother pointed out gently. "If there's one thing I never want to take from people, it's money. Dean's worked hard to get where he is and maybe he just wants to do it on his own."

"That's stupid," Rory blurted.

"Maybe," her mother said. "But it's probably the same reason I had to pay your grandparents back for Chilton. The same reason I had to do it all myself. The reason I hated asking Luke for help to start the Dragonfly."

"Well, you're stupid, too," Rory said.

"One thing you've never really had to think about is money," Lorelai explained. "I never wanted you to have to worry about, and when your grandparents came back in your life, I don't think you ever realized how unusual it was to have someone who could buy their way out of anything. How most people don't have that fallback."

"I suppose."

"Is he mad?"

"I don't think so," Rory said. "Just hurt, I think. He said he'd call me."

"Well, that's good then," her mother ventured. "Not all is lost."

"All the progress is lost," Rory said. "I have to start over."

"A new way to woo then."

"One that doesn't end up quite so woeful."

"Oh, nice alliteration, babe," her mother said. "Even stuffed and depressed, you still have your word skills."

Rory slumped in her chair. "Wonderful."

"Hey, there you go again," Lorelai said. "Now, why don't you head to bed? I'll just clean up, okay?"

"I just want him back," Rory said. "I just want him back."

"I know," her mother said, patting her hand. "I know."

-o-

It was two days later when her phone rang.

She was half-asleep at the time, snuggled beneath her covers, pretending like she didn't have to finish an article today and very much ignoring the fact that her mother wanted some help picking out a new bunch of flowers to accent the front walkway.

She might have ignored the phone altogether were it not ringing so incessantly and if she hadn't thoroughly woken herself up in her quest to find said ringing phone.

So, she was more than a little surprised when her grumbled hello was echoed by a familiar voice. "Hey."

The rest of her tiredness dissipated and she shot upright. "Dean. Hi."

"Sorry, this isn't a bad time, is it?"

She glanced at her alarm clock, which read 9:13. "No, no, of course not."

"You sounded sleepy. I didn't wake you up, did it?"

"No, no," Rory assured him. "I mean, not really. I was resting. Closing my eyes. Pretending to sleep. But you know, it doesn't matter, really. Why are you calling?"

"Well, I was just wondering what you were doing today."

"Doing today? Me? Oh. Well. I mean, I had to write a little bit, but it won't take me long and then I was going to avoid my mother who keeps wanting me to garden with her and then--well, nothing. I'm not doing much. Why? I mean, what are you doing today?"

Dean laughed a little. "Actually, we're doing inventory."

"Inventory?"

"At the store."

"Right. Of course. That would be the most logical place to do inventory."

"Well, I just thought. I don't know. You wanted to help and we're going to get a pizza and play music and Gilbert and Clara will be there and, I don't know. Maybe you'd want to come. Help, that is."

"You want me to come help with inventory?"

"No one is better at list making than you are."

"That is true," Rory said.

"If you're busy--"

"No, I'm not," Rory said quickly. "I'd love to help."

"Really?"

"Of course," Rory said. "Just tell me when."

"We're heading there after church service," Dean told her. "So, around noon. Come whenever you want."

"I'll be there," Rory said.

"Great. Thanks."

"You, too."

"Bye."

"Bye, Dean," Rory said.

As she ended the call, she stared at her phone, the shock still settling over her. Dean had called. Dean had invited her to help at the store. No mention of the money. No mention of the hurt feelings.

This was good. This was very good. Maybe she had a reason to hope after all.

She smiled the entire time she got dressed.

-o-

Inventory, as it turned out, was not quite as fun as Rory had hoped.

Yes, they did laugh, especially at Clara's off-key rendition of Mariah Carey's golden years, and even more so at Gilbert's awkward performance of Michael Jackson's _Thriller_ (complete with the moves, heaven help them all, the _moves_). But the afternoon was fraught with counting and numbering and tallying and organizing until Rory felt more exhausted than she had in years.

Dean was mostly quiet throughout it all, smiling at the antics, and steadily keeping the work effort moving forward. By the time Gilbert had gone home and Clara had been excused, the entire selling floor had been accounted for, as had the cluttered stock room, leaving Dean and Rory picking up the remains of the makeshift pizza-party karaoke.

"You should feel lucky that Gilbert doesn't take his act on the road," Rory said, collecting napkins off the counter.

"Right," Dean said. "I'm sure the world is much deprived for his atonal falsetto."

"Hey, never underestimate the power of a man who can force a dance move like that guy can."

"I almost felt like I should shield Clara's eyes."

"Aw, she's old enough now."

"I should have shielded _my_ eyes."

"Very true," Rory agreed. "I do feel rather violated."

Dean just snorted a little, putting his things in order by the computer. He paused for a moment before finally looking up at her. "Thanks for coming today," he said.

"Anytime," Rory replied, gathering up a garbage bag.

"I probably should have just told you, but I didn't know how."

"Told me what?"

"That it's okay," Dean said. "I sort of freaked out the other night."

"Completely understandable," Rory assured him quickly. "I just wasn't thinking about it from your point of view. I shouldn't have offered you the money."

"No, it was sweet," Dean said. "And I know you did it with good intentions."

"Still, I should have known."

"I just don't need that kind of help, Rory," Dean said. "I don't want your money. It's never been about money. My stress--it isn't really about the money. I mean, yeah, it's part of it, but the books are the books. I mean, it's everything else--it's my dad dying and my mother's expectations and the feeling like I worked so hard to get out and I'm going to be stuck here forever. Sometimes, that's so hard to swallow that I just don't know what to do. So I never wanted you to pay for things. I just--I don't know, I've always loved talking to you. I've always loved your insight. Your friendship."

Friendship. That bittersweet word.

She forced herself to smile. "I don't want to jeopardize that," Rory said. "And I feel so stupid that I did."

He returned her smile gently. "I feel stupid that you made brownies and I didn't stay for them."

"Well, I can assure you, they were quite good."

"You'll have to make them again sometime, then."

"Again? What, and risk an inferior performance?"

"My loss then," Dean said. "Maybe next time I'll make the brownies."

"I may just take you up on that," Rory said. As friends, of course. Just like she was friends with Jess. Just like she was friends with Logan. Just like she'd been friends with Dean.

Yes. Friendship. If Dean needed to call it that, Rory could deal with that for now.

-o-

While things with Dean were, well, _complicated_, life with the rest of Stars Hollow was peacefully simplistic, predictable in the way that Rory knew exactly _what _was going to happen but didn't have a clue _how _it was going to happen.

For example, she knew she was going to keep writing. She just didn't know what.

She knew that she was going to head to Luke's, she just didn't know who she'd see meet on the way. Or worse, what they were going to say to her.

Sometimes, she ate with her mother, which was pleasant enough, even when her mother was in a rather unpleasant mood. Of course, she knew she was going to see Luke, as it was Luke's diner, and she would subject him to a daily torture of quips and he would inflict his sarcastic graces right back on her. There was various and sundry others she may encounter, some benign, some amusing, some downright confusing--it was really all hit and miss.

So, walking away from Luke's that morning, she felt surprisingly unsocial, not that that was a bad thing. Sometimes, a little peace and quiet did her good--she did have a deadline coming up after all.

But that's when she saw Miss Patty.

It was hard to miss Miss Patty. The eccentric socialite had a habit of showing up everywhere and at anytime. Sort of unavoidable. Sort of when Rory least expected it. But there she was, charging down the street in all her gaudy glory, and the kid walking behind her darted into a nearby doorway, but Rory had nowhere to hide.

Having lived there her entire life, Miss Patty's ways were well known to her, and to everyone else for that matter. And Rory was keenly aware that she was being thoroughly assessed by the older woman, and Rory could only hope that she wasn't about to be abducted for Miss Patty's latest scheme. Which undoubtedly would have something to do with her desire to host a home-maker show, complete with crafts that no one would ever want and cooking that no one would ever eat.

The best strategy would be to run and run fast, but she had a cup of hot coffee in her hand and running would be difficult with a full, fresh cup.

So, she had to pick. Avoid Miss Patty or lose her coffee. Be subjected to hours of possible misery without purpose or go without one of her daily caffeine fixes.

Addiction was more powerful than fear. And at least this way, she'd be pleasantly buzzed if and when the abduction occurred.

Rory met her fate with a smile. Miss Patty was moving toward her and Rory said, "How are you today?"

The woman stopped, rolling her shoulders a bit to attain a higher posture--which, no, was not a good sign. "Rory," she said. "I've meant to thank you for the article. It was quite flattering."

Though the thanks sounded good enough, Rory could hear the tone. And she knew Miss Patty well enough to know that this was not a mere expression of gratitude. There was something else coming, something Rory couldn't avoid now, but she couldn't fight either. "I'm glad you liked it," Rory said, all too politely. "I did have good material, you know."

The friendly overture fell flat. "So, I've been hearing things lately," Miss Patty said, leaning in a bit, almost solicitously.

"Oh," Rory said. "Really." _Hearing things_ in Stars Hollow was not uncommon. In fact, it was practically a given. However, Rory had a feeling whatever Miss Patty had heard, somehow involved her. And not in a good way.

"There are some who are saying, and I won't tell you _who_, that you're after Dean Forester again."

After Dean Forester? What was she? A gold digging stalker? Rory tried to smile. "I'm not sure I follow."

Miss Patty huffed a sigh. "It's been said you're pursuing him again," she said. "You know. _Romantically_."

Rory raised her eyebrows. "Well, I mean--"

"Is it true?"

Of course it was true, but that didn't mean that she wanted it advertised. Not until she knew for sure where she and Dean stood. "Well, it's a little hard to explain--"

Miss Patty bristled. "I always did think you two were cute together," Miss Patty continued primly. "Though I _must_ say I never understood why you let him get away to begin with. It was rather messy, in the end, with his marriage turning out the way it did. I was fairly certain the boy had all washed up, was nothing more than pleasant eye-candy that must never be touched again. But how he's _changed_, dear. All grown up. Matured. Working his way through college and always coming home in the summers like the good son, though I doubt his mother _really _appreciated it. There are some who don't want to forgive him, you know, for cheating like he did. And that _was_ an _awful_ thing, dear. But, my, how he's grown. Even made peace with Lindsay, managed to keep her from making another mistake in marriage."

"Miss Patty," Rory interrupted. "I'm not sure why you're telling me this."

"Well it seems to me, dear," Miss Patty said. "That you never should have let him go to begin with. Rather foolish of you, don't you think? But I guess I'd like to say that I think you've grown up quite nicely, as well. You two still do look _adorable _together. You'd have such _lovely_ children. Just don't mess it up this time. He's not going to be on the market forever."

It was odd advice, almost disturbing, considering that Miss Patty could be her grandmother. But...convicting. She smiled. "Well, I'll certainly to my best."

Miss Patty smiled at that, rather magnanimously. "Good, dear," she cooed. "Now you keep up the good work!"

"Right," Rory said, feeling awkward as Miss Patty walked away.

She looked down at her coffee, wondering if it was worth it in the end. The caffeine for the dressing down. Hard to say. Because she was jittery in a way now that coffee would never fix.


	33. Chapter 33

A/N: I'm still working on review replies. Not much Dean in this chapter but a good helping of Luke and Lorelai. For anyone who was wondering what was up between them, I think this is the closest this story gets to explaining my take on it. Rory's got some pondering to do, so more important decisions will be coming up very soon, though this chapter doesn't quite get us there yet. Thanks!

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

One of the nice things about Stars Hollow was that there was always a distraction. Always something to take her mind off things.

And, truth be told, Rory really wanted a distraction right then. From Dean to her mother to _everything_, she really just wanted to think about something else. Anything else.

So, a bake sale in the town square? Ideal.

She was contentedly browsing through a varied selection of brownies when she browsed right into Nancy and her notebook.

"What are you doing here?" Nancy asked, accusingly and with a haughty tilt of her head.

"Oh," Rory said. "Looking for a good bargain. Sometimes there's peanut butter fudge, which is really the best thing to get, though I am rather interested in those caramel brownies. But a dollar a crack? Seems a bit steep, even for caramel brownies."

"No," Nancy said. "What are you doing here? This is _my_ event. I know Ned's been giving you a lot of free reign, but this one's _mine_."

Competition was good for her, it really was, but at a certain point, it was also rather ridiculous. It was like Paris hating her for simply being present. Nancy was accusing her of invading on her turf, which may have been a valid point, were it not a _bake sale_. Fighting over an editorial, maybe. Fighting over Dean's self-respect, sure. But over a bake sale?

There was no amount of PMS in the world that could make Rory that petty. Especially these days.

"Nancy, I assure you, my intentions here are entirely dietary," she said. "Accidental, even. I was just taking a walk--"

"You can explain it any way you like," Nancy interrupted, "but I'm pretty sure there are no _accidents_ when it comes to your pursuit of all things related to the paper. It certainly didn't take you any time to waltz back into town and try to take over my domain."

"Last I checked, you don't own the paper."

"No, I don't," Nancy agreed. "But you walk back in and you act like _you_ own the place. Like you haven't gotten everything you've ever wanted just by blinking. Any guy you want, you flit in and out. Everyone knows that when things get rough for you in the simple life you like to have, there's always money backing you up. Nothing's good enough for you and I just wish you'd stay away from me."

Well, that was a rant she hadn't been expecting and one she was pretty sure she didn't quite deserve. Not quite, but...

Okay. So. _Maybe_.

Because there was something to it all. Something Rory had never really thought about. That life went on without her--that it existed without her on all fronts. That was the point that her mother and Luke had been hammering on her, and maybe now it was making sense.

Dean had changed. Dean was different. She couldn't come back and think that he was still waiting for her like he was still nineteen.

Moreover, people had lives. People like Ned and Conrad and Lyman. Even Nancy. And when Rory walked into the Gazette's office, she'd only been concerned about herself. She'd thought that people would be grateful for her presence, and true enough, most of them were. But Nancy had a job, had a place, had a role, and Rory hadn't thought about that when she came back.

Not to mention that Nancy wasn't the only one who was on the offensive. Rory's entire pursuit of her career was an offense by default, no matter how pure her intentions may have been.

And the really simple thing was, the fact that she'd been avoiding since her first day at Chilton, was that she thrived in conflict.

It was true. She may not have sought out Paris to torment, but the moment Paris stood up to her presence, Rory made it her goal to flourish.

In so many ways, her job at the Gazette had become so much more when Nancy rose up in opposition to her easy conquering of the landscape.

This was a two-way street, even if Nancy was the one who was wrong. She may have been wrong, but she wasn't wrong in a vacuum.

Rory sighed. "I don't even have my notebook with me," she pointed out. "I promise you, right now, I am not trying to get in your way. Other times, maybe, but right now, all I want is some sugar and some caffeine."

Nancy pursed her lips, straightening herself. "I know you think this is _your_ town," she said. "But I've lived here just as long and I've worked too hard to get to where I am to be uprooted by _you_. So, if you don't mind, don't insult me with your pleasantries. You do your job and I'll do mine and we'll spare ourselves the small battles so we can fight the bigger ones when we need to."

With that, Nancy turned, stalking off down the row of baked items. Rory watched her go. It wasn't totally undeserved--Nancy's attack--but that didn't mean that Rory wanted to deal with it.

It was like Paris, all over again. The immediate disdain, the fear that underpinned it, Rory's innate desire to both combat it and overcome it.

It was oddly reassuring and frustrating, all at once.

-o-

She needed to eat.

True, this was a common problem. Not really a _problem_. She liked food after all. Food of all varieties. Healthy, junky, dinner, breakfast. She was well-versed when it came to food.

Sadly, the Gilmore kitchen was not well-versed in _storing_ food. Apparently, her mother no longer valued going to the store--she was too busy gardening or crocheting or doing whatever her mother did these days. And Rory certainly didn't frequent the grocery store, at least not to buy actual _groceries_.

Therefore, their cabinets were a bit on the barren side. She could have a package of stale saltines. There was a jar of peanut butter. Some instant rice was stashed in the back. And if she wanted to season anything, there were spices galore, even a little rosemary and thyme and Rory couldn't stop thinking about Simon and Garfunkel.

Her musings were interrupted by the back door opening.

She was a little surprised to see Luke there.

To be fair, he looked a little surprised to see her.

"Hi," she said, wondering if she had entered some alternate world, one where her mother actually had initiated some kind of domestic partnership without her knowledge. Because, yes, they were close to Luke, but she'd never seen him walk in like that before. Like he belonged there. Of course, Rory _had_ been gone for some years, but it seemed like she should _know_ that her mother and Luke were at the entering-without-knocking stage.

"Hi," he replied, closing the door behind him. He looked at her and clearly understood her blank expression. "Your mother lets me come in."

"Oh," she said, and she should have said something more, but she couldn't think of anything more. Because what exactly did this mean? Her mother and Luke meant something to each other, but they didn't want to get married, or they weren't ready to get married, but they surely _did_ stuff and why was Rory thinking about this at all?

And why was Luke just _staring _at her?

Probably because she was staring at him.

"Uh, your mom and I are going out for dinner."

Rory nodded absently. "That'd be nice," she said. "I was just looking and we certainly don't have any food. Well, we have _some_ food but unless you feel like having peanut butter and crackers, you're kind of out of luck. Though if you do like peanut butter and crackers, then you're in luck, because we have plenty, and then I'd just go out and you two could enjoy your peanut butter and crackers and whatnot in peace."

Luke's brow furrowed and he scratched the back of his head. "Uh. Right."

"But I guess peanut butter and crackers really isn't dinner, huh?" Rory asked, shuffling her feet awkwardly.

Luke looked at Rory then at the passageway to the living room before settling on his feet.

Rory chewed her lip.

This was ridiculous.

First of all, this was Luke. She knew Luke. She knew Luke well. And the simple fact of the matter was that even if she wanted to take all of her long standing history with Luke for granted, this was her mother's boyfriend. Yes. Her mother's boyfriend. No one seemed to want to say it or to really acknowledge it, which was fine if it was okay with them, but it wasn't okay with her. Because this was her house, too, and this was her mother she was talking about, and so, yes, a little more definitive line really would help her figure out just how she felt about all this. She was all for her mother's happiness, she truly, honestly was, but she needed to know just what the heck to call this thing to make her own peace with it.

"Are you going to marry my mother?"

Okay, so that wasn't really what she wanted to say, mostly because it made her sound like she was twelve and looking for a new daddy. She wasn't twelve, she was a grown woman, and she had a daddy that she got along with just fine. But that was the question, wasn't it? Just how serious he was. If she needed to work on making more room for him not only in the house, but her in her heart as well.

Luke looked a little panicked, his face tight and red. "Uh. I. Um."

"Not necessarily _are you getting married_ because I know you've been there and done that, or at least tried to with her before. But I just mean, where is this going? Are you two _for real _for real? How long can two people just sort of be together but not quite together and make it last? Don't you want more? Don't you want to know exactly what you are to one another? And if you love her and she loves you then what on _earth_ is the problem?"

It was all coming out now, all of it. Every doubt about her mother's relationship with Luke. Her mother's relationship with anyone besides her. And something else, something--

"I mean, do you realize just how lucky you are to know that? To love someone and have them love you back? You've already got that and I can't imagine having that anymore and not wanting to act on it."

And there it was. The crux of it all. To be in _love _and be loved in return. Very _Moulin Rouge_ and Christian and his forsaken little typewriter. The thing she _wanted_ and still couldn't get.

It was about her mother and Luke, but it was more about her and Dean. Too bad for Luke that he just happened to be standing there, mouth open and brow creased.

As if on cue, the front door opened with a cluttered bang and the sound of scuffling followed. "I am so _late_," Lorelai called. "Late and I'm supposed to be ready for dinner--"

When her mother entered the kitchen, her voice stopped short, taking in the stare down between the flustered Luke and the overwrought Rory.

"I didn't realize my tardiness was _that_ traumatic," her mother said uncertainly. "A little annoying, maybe, but I'd figure that you two sort of expected that by now."

Rory looked at her mother and looked at Luke. Her mother, still dressed from work, a skirt and a blouse and heels. Luke, with a button up over his t-shirt and surprisingly clean-looking khakis. They looked from one to another and then back at her.

"So, something I should know about?" her mother hedged.

Luke just swallowed.

Rory said, "I think we need to talk."

-o-

They ended up at the kitchen table, all hunched over it, biting their lower lips and wondering who wanted to speak first.

Which really, was probably a rarity in and of itself. That no one was talking. With two Gilmore women and Luke, that simply didn't happen all that often.

Of course, usually they weren't sitting around trying to define whatever whacked out interpersonal dynamics had been lurking in the background since Rory's less than stellar homecoming.

"So," her mother said. "You wanted to talk?"

Rory swallowed. She had been hoping they'd forget she was the one who had demanded this awkward session in communication. "Where is all this going?" she finally blurted.

Her mother raised her eyebrows and glanced at Luke who just shrugged in deference. "Where's what going?"

"This," Rory said, nodding at the table. "You and Luke and me and all of us together and apart."

"Honey, you know Luke and I--"

"Yeah, I know you and Luke are you and Luke. But I don't get it. I don't get what you're doing. You're serious with each other but you're not ready to move in. You seem to love each other but there's no talk of marriage. You completely work together but every time it even seems to come to a head, we don't want to talk about it. He has a key to our backdoor. A _key_. What happened to him just breaking in all the time? And I never see you two, you know."

"Well, honey, we don't really like company--"

"That's not what I mean," Rory snapped. "I mean, here? Or his place? Have you been contemplating major purchases together? Do you plan vacations together? Do you even go on vacations? Why are there huge parts of your life that I don't know about?"

And that was the crux of the issues she had when it came to her mother. Her mom's new peaceful vagueness was adult perhaps, and she was all for that, as long as she was in on it. She was supposed to know her mother. She just was. There had been times, of course, when it had been strained. Her break from Yale was a prime example. But they'd gotten past it. They had. She knew her mom. She knew Luke. She knew Stars Hollow. And she had come home because it was supposed to be safe and familiar and something she could predict and just _know_.

"You were gone," Lorelai reminded her gently. "Detroit, remember? You got busy. There wasn't time to tell you everything."

"Yeah, but I needed to know _this_."

"What?" her mom asked. "That Luke and I love each other? That we're just happy and that's what we're sticking with? We've tried it before, kid. We've tried it with rings and wedding dresses and this time--I don't know. This time it's just simpler this way. We're not saying it'll never be more, but we understand it the way it is now."

"Well, I don't," Rory said, frowning a little. And there was issue number two. "I mean, you two are so right for each other. You complete each other. You make sense together. And it's all right there for you."

"Well, I think this is why I haven't seen the need to define it all, sort out the details. We're both on the same page. And it's been just the two of us for so long."

"You mean you _like_ when I randomly attack your boyfriend with weird lines of questioning that make him feel like he's stealing some little girl's mommy?"

Luke hedged a little bit. "Actually, it was more like an angry would-be mother-in-law attacking me for not making a decent woman out of her daughter."

"That too," Rory said. "You two are rather scandalous."

"And you're both missing the point," her mother interjected. "I haven't felt like I've had to define all this, me and Luke, me and Rory, Rory and Luke, because it just is what it is. We're already family in our own dysfunctional way. And that's what family is."

"Dysfunction?" Rory asked.

"Of the most dysfunctional kind."

"Dysfunctional dysfunction would actually be function," Luke pointed out.

"And again," her mother said with a smile. "I make my point."

And she had. Lorelai was right. Luke was as much a part of them as Stars Hollow, as this house, as each other. He fit. Even when they fought, even when they did stupid things, her mother was made for Luke and Rory could see that now, had seen it all along, and the only reason she'd really been so obsessed with defining it was because she didn't know how _she_ fit into it.

Jealousy. Of her mom and Luke and the closeness they shared that she'd missed out on, that she hadn't been a part of.

Jealousy that they had the thing she wanted.

"So," her mother ventured softly. "Are we okay?"

Luke just raised his eyebrows. "I already know that what I feel about this isn't nearly as important as what you two have going on in your heads."

"You learn quick," her mother grinned. "Rory?"

Jealousy didn't change things with Dean. And it shouldn't change things between her mom and Luke. Between herself and the both of them. This was family and for that much stability in her life, she had to be grateful. "Yeah," she said. "I think I'm okay."

"Then it's settled," her mother said, rubbing her hands together. "Now, if we're all good, I do believe we have a dinner date."

"And I'm not invited?" Rory asked.

"Well, the dinner is only part of the date," her mother said as Luke blanched.

"You're getting kinky in your old age."

"You're just jealous," her mother said.

Of some things, yes. Of that? "Hardly," Rory replied. "I think I have an article to write anyway. So, please. Go have your dinner and your date and please don't let me know when you're done, alright?"

"Sure thing, kid," her mother said, getting to her feet. "You ready to go?"

"You have no idea," Luke replied.

Rory watched them go, down the hall, bickering and flirting and talking and suddenly it felt good to Rory. Good that in all the mess of her life, all the mess of the world, at least one thing made sense.

-o-

The summer was fleeting.

That was always a bittersweet time, for anyone, really. The dwindling days of warmth, with school approaching and the turn of autumn. Rory wasn't in school anymore, but she still felt the change, the shift in momentum, from the crazy antics in summer heat to the gentle monotony of fall.

She kept writing. Articles came and articles went out and people read her with the same voracity as ever. She found home become a new kind of normal. Understanding her mother's relationship with Luke was never easy, but understanding that her mother was happy, peaceful in a way she never had been before was enough.

And even her old room was hers again: like it had been, but different. Just like the entire experience. Just like her.

She still looked for jobs. Her grandparents' check was in the bank just waiting to be used. But Rory wanted to find just the right thing, make just the right decision and she still wasn't sure what that was. She put some feelers out, a few applications with news organizations and service groups, all with options for international travel. It seemed like the only thing she hadn't done yet, which was probably why it sounded appealing. But, she had to admit, she didn't pursue them as tenaciously as she had everything else in her life. No late nights obsessing over the details. No excessive phone calls to see if all her application materials had been received. What would happen, would happen, and she was oddly content to just let that be.

There was one other thing, though, still not sorted, and the more she thought about it, the more she realized that world travel wasn't the only thing she hadn't done yet in her life.

She'd never opened herself up completely--to anyone, much less a guy. She'd tried before, because it had seemed like the right thing to do, but she'd never felt it spring up naturally like she'd always supposed it should. Along those lines, maybe she'd never really been in love, not in the kind of love she saw in her mother's eyes when she talked about Luke, not the kind of love she saw in Dean when he talked about his family.

That was the thing that she really couldn't figure out. Dean. Not just who he was or who they were together, but what she really wanted in the end. Because she could fill out job applications and she could write articles, but there was no simple formula to figuring out how to talk to Dean about what she wanted, about what she felt.

The fact was, she knew that it'd never be easy. She knew that Dean was never leaving Stars Hollow. She knew that Dean was going to run the stereo shop, live in his mother's house, put his sister through college. He would pay the mortgage, finish off his father's debts, and be the son his family needed. She wasn't sure he'd ever be truly happy with that, but he would do it, for once and for always. Because Dean was faithful. He'd stumbled once, betrayed the trust put in him once, and she could see it in his eyes--he'd never do it again. Not for his own dreams and certainly not for Rory.

So, it would never work. Her and Dean, it couldn't work. Because Rory was going to leave Stars Hollow again, some time soon, and Dean would never come with her. And she was pretty sure that he wouldn't promise her anything. Maybe before, but not now. Not with their history.

Yet, there was something between them. Since the night of Dean's breakdown, he hadn't avoided her. Even after Rory's misguided attempt to bail him out monetarily, there was still something there. They'd talked, they'd met for coffee and he'd smiled when she visited him at the store. He was no longer saying they were off-limits. She figured they'd been through too much for that. But they didn't take it further. She asked for nothing from him and he asked for nothing from her and it seemed to work.

But Rory wanted more.

It didn't make sense, it would never work, but Rory wanted more.

She wanted to tell him how much she loved him. She wanted to tell him how much she appreciated him. She wanted to tell him that she'd never realized just how amazing he was, just how much he could do. She wanted to tell him that his ability to fix things blew her mind. She wanted to tell him that the way he talked to customers was so natural, so sincere. She wanted to tell him that the stereo shop was doing better business than ever. She wanted to tell him that he was a success, that he was doing so well, that his family was so _lucky_ to have him.

She wanted to say she was sorry. That she was sorry she'd never figured it out before, that she'd never told him that before, that she'd never looked past the end of her own nose and the beating of her own heart to see just who he was and what he had to offer. She was sorry that she'd found him boring. She was sorry that she'd let Jess convince her that he was less than he was and that she'd compared him to Logan and found him lacking. She was sorry that she'd never taken the time to really know him.

She wanted a lot. But she couldn't always get what she wanted. No amount of education, no amount of planning, no amount of money could make that happen.

No, it came down to choices. To her decisions. About what she really wanted.

It occurred to her, though, in her many nights of sitting up late and staring at her blank computer screen, that that was sort of what being an adult was all about. About making decisions, about making the hard decisions, about figuring out what was worth it and what wasn't. Life wasn't perfect, not even for people born with silver spoons in their mouths. She had to make her own way, do her own thing, and she'd always believed that. But life wasn't lived in isolation. Decisions shouldn't be made that way, either.

Her mother told her that love was about sacrifice.

Too bad love and sacrifice were still two things that scared her, two things she still wasn't sure she could quite grasp.


	34. Chapter 34

A/N: Rory's getting closer to making her decision :) Review replies will be forthcoming hopefully today. Thank you!

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Another Friday night, another weekly interrogation.

Interrogation was probably too strong of word. After all, it was just her grandparents being invested in her future. They cared about her. They always had. They just didn't really grasp the idea of allowing her some space.

Her mother's only comfort was to take a bet as to when the barrage would begin.

Rory had glared, and wagered five bucks that it would be before they sat down to dinner.

Sadly, nothing was going her way tonight. They were part way through dinner before the inevitable topic came up, which meant not only did she had to answer the question, but she was out five bucks as well.

Her mother snorted and Rory blanched and her grandparents looked at both of them.

"Are you quite all right?" her grandmother asked, turning a pointed stare at her mother.

Lorelai nodded quickly, grinning a little. "Of course," she said. "What was it you were saying?"

Her grandmother signed a little, shaking her head.

"I was just asking Rory how the job search is coming," her grandmother repeated, primly folding her napkin and dabbing at her mouth.

"Oh. I'm pretty sure she heard you," her mother offered, not so helpfully.

Rory resisted the urge to glare. It wouldn't help at this point. "It's coming," Rory offered vaguely, pushing her fork absently through the pasta on her plate. She may have seen this line of questioning coming, but that still didn't mean she had an answer. Or one worth giving.

Her mother snorted. "It's coming? I swear, we have more stamps and envelopes at home than a post office."

Rory rolled her eyes. "It's not quite that bad."

"Not that bad?" her mother asked with more than a tinge of incredulity. "We could have our own post office box."

"That's fantastic," her grandfather interjected. "It shows your tenacity, which is something I've never doubted in you."

Blushing, Rory twirled some pasta on her fork. "I haven't heard much back."

"Yes, well, when you're sending things across _oceans_, it tends to take awhile," her mother said.

"So, you have definitely expanded your search internationally," her grandfather ventured.

Rory nodded. "I'm just trying to keep all my options open," she said. "See what comes back. So I'm hitting up the major papers around the country and some select ones abroad. I'm pretty excited that the Times is hiring right now."

"The New York Times?" her grandfather clarified, his voice hedging.

"The one and only," Rory said. "It's always been the one I've wanted more than the rest. Ever since I lost out on the internship, it's sort of been like the pinnacle of success to me."

Her grandparents exchanged pleased glances. Clearly, this suited them, and Rory felt a pang of regret that they wanted to know how it all would end up more than she did. "That is why we gave you the money," her grandmother said. "To go and do great things."

"Maybe if you'd given me twenty grand, I would have done great things, too," her mother said. "Maybe we should find out."

Her grandmother cast her a tired glare. "Lorelai, your idea of greatness was always to do exactly the opposite of what you thought we wanted."

"Yeah, that sounds like me. But still. For twenty grand?"

"It is rather liberating," Rory agreed. "There are so many things I've thought about and now I can really _do _them. I just don't know what to pick."

"Well, you're a Gilmore," her grandfather said. "You're a Yale graduate. You can do anything you put your mind, too."

Anything. _Anything_.

Rory smiled, feeling more than a little overwhelmed. Her entire life was _anything_. Only twenty grand was a lot more than a chance. It was a sign of trust, a sign of expectation, and suddenly Rory realized maybe why her mother had never wanted to take money from them to begin with.

Because she was grateful, she was. But anything. Anything was everything and sometimes she wondered if she just wanted _one _thing_. _One special thing. One meaningful thing. One _real _thing. If she only could say for sure what that was.

-o-

When the door shut behind them, Rory felt exhausted.

Not that that was a terribly uncommon feeling after a night with the grandparents. They were well-intentioned, she knew, though keeping on her best manners for an entire evening did tend to be a bit exhausting. Not to mention the sheer amount of conversation she was required to keep up--and not her usual brand of conversation which could be fast-paced and random. But conversation that was often deeply about _her,_ which required a brand of self-reflection that didn't tax her vocabulary skills but could easily wear her out from the sheer emotional task of it all.

Besides, eating that much food wasn't easy for anyone, not even a skilled eater like herself.

It was one thing when she was able to talk about things she was proud of her. Her great accomplishments and whatnot. It was entirely another to try to speculate in a meaningful and substantive way her plans for the future. Her grandparents were looking for amazing things. Twenty thousand dollar things.

It was sort of hard to tell them that she just wanted to figure out an article for Saturday's paper and new ways to trick Dean into a non-date.

Those weren't twenty thousand dollar things. Those were Gilmore things.

So, she was exhausted.

"You okay?" her mother asked.

Rory realized then that her mother was watching her in that carefully astute way that only her mother could. "Of course," she said.

Her mother nodded that mother smile that was an affirmation without being one at all. "Right, and I totally am not jealous of your twenty grand."

"You're jealous of the money?"

Her mother rolled her eyes. "More evidence that you're so not okay," her mother said. "You're missing the point."

"And that is?"

"That you're not quite as cool and calm and collected as you want them to believe."

"I'm totally cool." Rory held out her hand. "Feel it."

"Lack of body heat in your case is probably more related to poor circulation due to stress and excessive caffeine rather than being totally self-assured."

"Okay, Dr. Phil, what is my problem then?"

"They told you that you can do anything."

"Supportive family members--shocking."

Lorelai just pressed on. "You know the hard part about being told you can do anything?"

"I'm sure you'll enlighten me."

Her mother smiled a little. "It means they expect you to do something wonderful. No one tells someone who they think can do the best things ever that they can do anything. Those are the kids they put into auto shop class and hope make it through high school. But being told you can do _anything_, well, that's as much a curse as it is a blessing."

"Rather negative of you, don't you think?"

Her mother just looked at her. "Why do you think it took my parents so long to accept that I wasn't getting married and that I spent years living in a one-room shack working as a maid?"

"Again, I'm getting the sense that you're going to tell me."

"Because I could do _anything_," her mother supplied. "Anything at all. And they hated that I chose that. Because anyone could do what I did. They wanted me to do something that was difficult and amazing and it's taken them a long time to realize that this is what I'm happy with. They're this way with careers, lives. Men. Why do you think Luke still doesn't come with us to these things?"

"I figured you wouldn't want to subject him to the trouble."

"Exactly. Because he's not _anything_. To them, Luke is settling. Stars Hollow is settling. Sweetie, I just want you to know that when I tell you that you can do anything, I mean it. Anything. The Gazette, being a janitor, even trying to take the position of the new town troubadour."

"The old one quit?"

"I heard he got in at some coastal town. Bigger and better things all around."

"I liked him."

"Me, too. He could even play the mandolin. How many troubadours can put that on their resume?"

"How many troubadours have resumes?"

"We have a town resolution about them so really, crazier things have happened. But seriously. Anything. Anything, Rory, from me has no strings attached. And that goes with the boyfriends, too."

Rory felt herself blushing despite herself. "I'll definitely keep that in mind."

Her mother's face blossomed into a smile as she pulled her keys out of her pocket. "Though twenty thousand, babe. That's a whole lot of anything."

"Don't remind me!"

"Only you would actually be stressed over receiving money."

"You just told me I should be."

"And you listen to me?"

"Since when haven't I?"

"Since you went to Yale, nearly married Logan then settled half a country away from me."

"I thought you said I could do anything."

"Again, my point stands."

"Your point is ridiculous."

"You wouldn't expect anything less."

"Can we go home yet?"

"I've got my keys out."

"We're not walking."

"Am I the only one with legs?"

Rory rolled her eyes and started walking.

-o-

The annoying thing was that her mother was right.

She supposed that really shouldn't be so surprising. Her mother had, after all, unusual insight when it came to the Gilmore family, being as she'd been a member of it for sixteen years longer than Rory.

Rory had just never felt the pressure like she did now. Yes, things had been hard at Chilton and Yale and during all the other important events of her life. She had fretted over grades and extra curriculars and jobs and boys--but the thing was, and this really was the thing, she'd always been more worried about living up to her own standards rather than anyone else's. True, her grandparents did have quite to-the-point expectations, but it was a rare day in Rory's life when she was worried about pleasing them. Or even more, when they had doubted some decision she'd made.

They'd gushed about Chilton. They'd raved about Yale. They'd turned pink with delight about her internships, her jobs, all of it. She was the perfect daughter they never had because their own was too tired of expectations to appease them.

Now, she kind of understood why. It wasn't that they didn't love her or she didn't love them, but twenty thousand dollars could buy her the world and she didn't even know if she wanted to get out of her bedroom. And they would love her still, she knew that, just like they loved her mother.

But...

Well, she didn't envy the looks her mother sometimes got from them. The little comments. It had gotten better, sure, over the years. But it still didn't make it any more fun.

It was like the night she brought Dean over for the first and only time.

That look like she could do better.

She sighed, flopping back on her bed. That had been so long ago. Her own first falling out with them that had never been enough of a falling out at all. They had, after all, belittled Dean with him sitting right there. At their dinner table. At Rory's request. And he'd been polite throughout it all.

She had hated the way they talked to him. Mostly, she had to admit, because of how it made her feel.

Rory-vision was what is was. She liked to think everyone was like that, that each person understood their life through their own experience of it. But she could still see the look on Dean's face. The stoop to his shoulders as he turned and went home.

She had apologized. She had.

But...

It occurred to her with sudden clarity that maybe Dean had known it all along right then. Known that someday he'd be waiting outside her grandparents house, watching her with her other friends, her with her expensive clothes and makeup, and knowing that he'd never get invited inside again.

Rory had people telling her she could do anything.

Dean had people telling him he would never be good enough.

Her grandparents, Luke, the _entire town_.

Guilt churned in her stomach and she pushed herself to her feet. She needed to talk to Dean, to hear his voice, to make it _better _somehow.

Her cell phone was on her desk and she was dialing Dean's number before she had the good sense to think about it.

"Hey," he answered, and his voice sounded light. A little airy. He was smiling. He was happy to hear from her and he was smiling.

"Hey, yourself," Rory shot back, sinking back onto her pillows.

"How was dinner?"

"How do you know I had dinner?"

"You always have dinner," Dean replied. "Besides. It's Friday. I sort of figured you still did the grandparent thing."

Perceptive and right. "Yeah, it seems to be a habit for us."

"That's good," he said, and she could tell he meant it.

Which, how could he mean it? After what her grandparents had done to him? How they had humiliated him? How she had humiliated him by never asking him back and indirectly saying they were right?

"Though, now the beer joke really wouldn't work, would it?"

"It didn't really work then, did it?"

He laughed a little. "No, not really," he agreed. "So, what's up? Don't you have other stuff to fill your happening Friday nights?"

"I should be writing," Rory mused absently. "I have a deadline."

"No doubt another riveting Gilmore original."

"You mock," she said. "But they're talking of rezoning the abandoned mini mart over on Crescent Street. If that thing goes residential, just watch out. Prime real estate for the taking."

"I'll be sure to take note."

"It's not much of a piece," Rory admitted unnecessarily. "But I need the job."

"I can't imagine that."

"Well, I do like to write."

"So, write something more important. Go to a bigger paper."

"Been there, done that. Left on questionable terms."

"What terms?"

"Quitting terms."

"You just never really said," Dean said. "Why you quit your job."

It was a question she was actually surprised more people hadn't been asking. In truth, it seemed like people were more happy that she was back to spend time questioning why she was. Ignorance and bliss, it would seem. "Oh, it's kind of a long story."

"You have someone else you need to talk to?"

"Okay, so it's kind of a short story," Rory relented. "It's just not very interesting."

"The more you avoid it, the more I'm pretty sure it's more than that."

She sometimes forgot how perceptive he could be. He knew her. He just knew her and he knew what to ask. He had gotten better at that in their years apart, and sometimes it amazed Rory that they hadn't been talking all that time.

"I was writing a series of features about Detroit natives. Sort of homage pieces, capturing the diversity and strength of the city."

"Sounds like you."

"I know. And they were great to write. Deep, real interviews, good people. A widow of a civil rights activist, a teacher who spent his entire career in the worst schools, a girl who had singlehandedly spearheaded a campaign to save her neighborhood library."

"So, what happened?"

Rory felt her throat tighten. She hadn't talked about it, hadn't let herself think about it. But she was always after Dean to talk, to be honest with himself. Maybe it was her turn. "My editor wanted a piece on a boy whose parents were both in jail. A real heartbreaking story about overcoming obstacles. So I met the kid, and talked to him, and had the best quotes. It was going to be a great article, maybe my best."

"And?" Dean asked gently.

"I had let my editor see it and he loved it. But then I got a call from the kid, He changed his mind about the interview."

"Why?"

"Because he loves his parents," Rory said with a sigh. "And not in that abused child kind of way. In that they were his family and he owed them more than that. He wasn't blind to what they'd done, he just didn't want to add to their humiliation. An article wasn't more important to him."

"But it was to your editor."

"He wanted to print it. I said no, he said yes. I said no way, and he said yes way or I knew where the door was. And I did. Know where the door was. So I told him that it was wrong, that we had to respect people and have ethics and walked out. And kept on walking until I ended up here."

There was a pause and her resolve lingered between them. "You quit for a kid?"

"I had to," Rory said. "You didn't hear him. You didn't see him. And it was like this kid has had enough bad breaks and all he wanted to do was to be there for his family and he didn't need everyone else in the entire world trying to weigh him down because he had enough doing that already and it wasn't worth it."

And it occurred to Rory that that story wasn't so singular. That it wasn't just poor kids with parents in prison who were trying to do the right thing for their family. It was young men in small towns with a father who had just died. It was a sacrifice Rory had recognized in the kid, had defended, and maybe she owed Dean the same.

"So you quit," Dean concluded softly.

"So I quit," Rory said, feeling a little numb with realization. "There are some things more important that success."

"Yeah," Dean said. "That's a hard one to figure out."

Hard, harder still to see that it wasn't just about her.

Wow. And that was quite a moment. It wasn't just about _her_. She'd walked out of a job on a matter of principle. Dean had walked out on every dream because it was what his family needed. Same sacrifices, only Dean's came with a lot less prestige.

"I think that's great," Dean said. "I mean, not that you left your job, but that you left it for those reasons. Not that I would have doubted it for you. But, I mean, to have your dreams, to be writing for one of top papers in the world and come back home when you've got so much going for you--that takes courage."

"Yeah, well, I'd like to say I thought about it more when I did it," Rory admitted, staring at her ceiling. "It all just kind of happened."

Dean offered a small laugh. "Life is like that."

She sat up. "You would know," Rory said. "I mean, you did the same thing. The job offers, your degree, everything you worked for--"

"It wasn't a hard choice to make."

"That's just because of who you are," Rory said. "I mean, I walked out in this weird fit of passion, like I was trying to relive some cliche scene from a movie. But you--you give it all up day after day and you don't get anything for it."

"Well, I got an ulcer."

"You know what I mean."

He sighed. "It's okay."

"It's okay?"

"Isn't it okay for you?"

"Well, yes," Rory said. But she still had a million options. She still had her choices, her future. Dean had--well, what did Dean have? "It's okay for you?"

"Yeah," he said slowly. "It's okay."

"You sure? It doesn't sound okay."

"It is," Dean said. "It's just--"

"It's just what?"

"It's funny," Dean said.

"What?" Rory asked, leaning back on the bed and twirling a finger in her hair.

"That this is the way my life turned out."

"You talk like you're done with it," Rory said. "I know you're staying here, but there's more to life."

"How do you know?"

That question made her pause. She didn't really _know_. There was no evidence. Just this sense she had. The way the first part of her life had always been. "Life always changes," she said finally. "You'll change and you'll grow. Look at where you've been. Where you thought you'd be. You can't think you're done yet."

He paused, too, and seemed to be thinking. "Maybe," he said. "But I think it's funny that this is what I figured I'd always be doing. You know, back when I was in high school. That I'd never amount to anything more than a kid working the family business, living in a small town he can't escape."

"But you did escape," Rory told him quickly. "You left and you _chose_ to come back."

"I know," Dean said, and there was something different in his voice, something lighter, something proud. "That's what's funny. That I thought the only way to change myself was to get away but all that did was change where I was. It never changed who I was. Now that I'm here, now that it's really settled, I think I can make it work. It's not, you know, exciting. I don't have all the bells and whistles I dreamed about. But it's okay."

Okay had never been her aspiration. Okay had never seemed good enough. But the way he said it. After knowing all he'd gone through, all he'd done to get _there_, it suddenly sounded like the best thing ever. "You're really okay then?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. "I think so."

"Nothing else in the world you want?" she asked, tipping her head back so she was looking at the ceiling.

"Well," he said. Then he hesitated. "There's always _something_ I want. There's always something more that we all want. But you can't always get what you want."

And in his voice, Rory heard it for the first time since coming back home. She heard the possibility, the potential--the idea of _them_. She sat up straight, alert, not sure if she was making it up. "No," she agreed. "But, you know. If you try sometimes, you might just get what you need."

"I hope so," Dean said. "I really do."

And so did Rory.


	35. Chapter 35

A/N: Not much Dean, but some important Rory stuff. Major decisions will come in the next chapter--I promise :) Thank you!

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

She had a preliminary interview with the Chicago Tribune. A phone thing, a little low-key, a testing of the waters of sorts. The man who interviewed her was named Stan (of course he was named Stan, and she could almost see him with his suspenders and tie and little reporter notebook in hand). Stan sounded nice enough as he praised her portfolio and asked about her intentions.

"Where do you see yourself in five years?" he asked. "You know, if you had your way?"

Her hand was sweating. "Well, I obviously would like to be employed at a major news company--newspaper, some kind of broadcasting perhaps, maybe something more humanitarian. Traveling would be ideal."

"Aspirations to see the world," he said. "Very good. Very good. And ambitious. You haven't been out of school that long."

"I've always been focused."

"Future-oriented," he said, and she could almost see him nodding. "Good, good. Plans to return to college? Complete some kind of masters work?"

"Of course," she replied, not because she was really thinking about it or even wanted it. She'd thought about it, of course, because that was what people did. They went back to school. They advanced their knowledge, their careers, themselves. But she didn't say it because she wanted it. She said it because it was the right answer. "You can never stop learning."

"Well, the looks of your resume, I must say, it's quite impressive. Your portfolio suggests you're just the kind of employee we're looking for. Now, we're not past the preliminary stages of all this, you see, but I can promise you that you're on our short list. We'll be following up with you."

"Thank you," she said, and she felt her face flush. Excitement. Anticipation.

"No, thank you," Stan said. "We'll be in touch."

As she ended the call, her skin was prickling. The Chicago Tribune. Another step up. A good job. A new challenge.

And the reality was there for her as plain as newsprint: the future was still hers for the taking. This was the first of many opportunities, she knew that. There'd be other calls. There'd be interviews. There'd be offers.

All she had to do was pick the one that was right for her. Chicago, Washington, overseas, even New York, or maybe--

Maybe someplace closer to home.

She couldn't let that go. She just couldn't, and she was afraid that she knew why.

-o-

Her mother was working on a cross stitch on the living room couch, looking far too composed.

"So?" her mother prompted.

Rory just stared, unable to move from the doorway. "So."

"You called them?"

"I called them."

"And?"

"And it was the Chicago Tribune."

Her mother raised her eyebrows, her needle pausing. "Wow. That's a step up. What'd they say?"

"It was a preliminary interview."

"Sounds impressive."

"I talked to Stan."

"Stan sounds like a strong, journalistic name."

"That's what I thought."

"So, it went well."

"I think so."

"And we're not excited?"

"I don't know?"

Her mother sighed, putting her cross stitch to the side and leveling her with an all-too-perceptive stare. "You know."

She was right. Rory did know. She slunk to the couch and curled up next to her mother. "The job sounds great."

"But?"

"But I can't stop thinking about..."

"About...?"

"Dean."

"What about Dean?"

"Why doesn't he love me? I can nail any interview but why doesn't Dean love me?" she asked finally. It was a hard question to ask. An uncomfortable one. But the one she'd been hitting around for months now, the one she couldn't' figure out, the one that everyone around her seemed to inherently understand and yet she couldn't quite grasp.

Her mother smiled a little, that sad, sympathetic smile she seemed to have mastered in Rory's time away. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes," she said emphatically, her voice hitching with anticipation.

Lorelai seemed to sigh a little. "It's not that he doesn't love you," her mother said. "It's that he's always loved you. He's loved you since he was seventeen years old and I don't think he ever stopped. Not when he broke up with you, not when you chose Jess, not when he married Lindsay. Not even when you moved away and he went to college. Sometimes, there's that _one_, the person that you're meant for. And you never really get over them. Sometimes you can move on, sometimes you can let go, but you never really forget. That's something special, something rare, but it's always so _hard_. Especially when that person breaks your heart."

Rory just stared, her mouth going dry, her hands feeling clammy.

Her mother shrugged. "That's you, honey," she said. "That's you for Dean. It always has been and it's the reason why I've always liked him best. Not just because he was stable and modest and not a complete jerk, but because he _loved_ you."

"So, why not now?" Rory asked, her voice quieter now. "Why won't he be with me now?"

"Because he spent the last four years letting you go," she explained. "Don't you see? After his divorce, after losing you again, he had to work to get himself back together. I don't think you realize that--you weren't here. It wasn't easy. But he redefined himself. He made himself someone better. It took a lot of work and he didn't have any support—but look at him. The success he had in college. The respect he's earned in this town. That doesn't just _happen_. Not for everyone. And I'm not sure Dean wants to risk everything he's tried so hard to become on the one person who has always broken his heart."

And there it was. Spelled out. Plain as day. The secret her mother knew. The truth Luke was privy to, too. The thing she should have seen all along but had never let herself realize.

It wasn't that Dean didn't love her. It wasn't that Dean didn't want to be with her. It was that Dean didn't _trust _her. That after all these years, there was still the simple fact that she'd broken his heart and never really appreciated just what that meant. She'd never gotten it—that to him, it hadn't been a high school romance. It hadn't just been fun and exciting and something to do. It had been more. And she had treated him so extraneously. Like a passing trend.

She hadn't meant to--but she just hadn't really been ready for more. They had been at different places.

More than that, Dean had moved on. He'd figured himself out, he'd done the very thing that Rory was still struggling to do--he knew what he wanted and he knew enough about how to get it. He'd made his life and he'd done the best he could and he'd done it without Rory, which is exactly what she deserved.

And here she was, wanting him back.

"I'm sorry," her mother said, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I know it's not the answer you wanted to hear."

The pain of it was nearly suffocating. "It's all my fault, isn't it?"

"Not all of it," her mom said. "But, yeah. A lot of it."

"Will I ever get him back?"

"I think there's a more important question to ask yourself," her mom said. "Do you really love him? I mean, if this is more of the same, I understand that. I mean, come on, I can see the guy. He's amazing and, um, yeah. That would be fun. But you can't pursue him if you don't _really_ love him. If he's not worth sacrificing everything for, then you shouldn't even go for it. And I say that because I love you. You're my daughter and I want what's best for you, but doing that to Dean—making him open up to you again when you're not ready to give him everything back—it can't end well. It won't. For anyone."

And that was a lot to take in. All of it.

Her mother was watching her carefully. "So, do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Love him?"

Did she? He'd always been the one to say it first. That night, in the car he was going to build for her. That night he'd planned for, and Rory hadn't known what to say. And since then, she'd been so sure of it. She'd counted on it. Like it was a given. Even through the breakups, even through Jess, and Lindsay. She could still remember her first time, thinking it was okay because he _loved_ her.

She hadn't loved him then.

Did she love him now?

"How do I figure that out?"

Her mother just let out a slow breath, an amused smile on her face. "I don't have that answer for you," she said. "That one's yours to figure out."

She could get a job, she could write an article, but damn it all if she still didn't totally know when love was worth the sacrifice.

-o-

When answer wouldn't come, there was always eating.

At this point, Rory was really all about quick fixes. Distractions. Anything.

So, the next morning, Lane met her in the diner.

This was impressive for several reasons. For one, Lane was nearly impossible to get ahold of. Rory had believed that their physical distance from one another had hampered their ability to easily communicate.

She'd been wrong.

It turned out being a full-time mom of three was pretty demanding. Even living in the same town hadn't made it much easier to hold a conversation with Lane, even though Rory had to admit she remembered to call her more often. It just seemed like any conversation was truncated by some emergency of the child variety.

More reasons why Rory was pretty sure she should never be a mother.

But the fact that she was actually talking to Lane wasn't the only impressive feat of the day. The fact that Lane was out in public and _alone_ was the true accomplishment and it made Rory almost ache with nostalgia.

She'd come home for this--for safe and familiar and friends and family--and yet, this entire time, it had been hard to pin down.

No more, though. She was sitting with Lane in the diner, just to two of them, eating pancakes and French toast and more hash browns than either of them should humanly consume.

"I feel like I'm missing something," Lane said, cocking her head to the side.

"I was thinking about warm maple syrup myself."

"No," Lane said. "I mean. Man. I don't remember the last time I was out without the kids. Do you know how weird this is?"

"Sort of lonely?"

"Sort of liberating," Lane exclaimed. "I actually got to bring a purse. Not like a gigantic mommy-purse, on diapers, no extra clothes, no sippie cups. Just my purse. With my keys. And lip gloss. Remember when my mother wouldn't let me use lip gloss?"

"Well it is rather scandalous."

"Now, I don't even have _time_ for lip gloss."

"Your mother would be proud."

"My mother _is_ proud," Lane replied. "And she doesn't care about the lip gloss. It's kind of funny that way. Though she's already planned that Kwan will be a doctor and Steve will be an architect."

"An architect?"

"Lawyers are too morally ambiguous."

"And how does she deal with Zack's career?"

"She'd be his manager if she could. She's completely accepted it," Lane said, taking a bit of her toast. "After all, she got three grandkids now and her daughter being home and domestic."

And that was weird. Rory often tried not to think about it because it was just too weird. Because Lane was eccentric and rock and roll. Lane was quirky and punk and of all the things Rory had envisioned for her best friend, a happy if neurotic homemaker was not it.

"To think," Lane said with a small laugh, "that my only dream used to be the band. I was _obsessed_ with the band. And now I barely even have time to think about it."

"And you don't mind?"

Lane looked at her and blinked. "Mind what?"

"Giving up the road, your dream of being in the band."

Lane stared at her a minute more before she laughed.

This time, it was Rory who blinked.

"You really have to ask?" Lane said, like it was obvious.

"I just want to know," she said. "What it's like giving up something you want so bad, a dream you've always wanted. I mean, do you regret it?"

"Regret what?" Lane said with a shrug. "You give up one thing and get another. So maybe I didn't think I'd have kids until I was old enough to be boring, but it's like, now that it's done, there's no other way to do it. I married the right guy, even my _mother_ concedes that. And I think that's all that matters. It makes living in a crappy house, having no money, having him gone on tour all worth it. And the kids? Trust me, Rory, you never know until they're yours that they're all you've ever wanted."

Lane was so serious, so sure, so unreasonably reasonable about it that Rory didn't know quite what to say. Just that it was hard to believe they were here, standing in Lane's kitchen where Lane had a ring on her finger and three kids running around. Lane hadn't gone all the places she wanted to go, she hadn't accomplished any of the dreams she'd had in high school, and she was okay. She was more than okay: she was happy.

Rory, on the other hand, she'd gotten everything else. The opportunities, the chances, the dreams come true, and she wasn't so sure about herself.

There was a lesson there, she was sure of that.

She smiled.

Lane cocked her head. "What?"

"Nothing," Rory said.

"No, no, no," Lane said. "That wasn't a _nothing_ smile. I know we haven't been around each other that much in recent years, but I know your smiles. And you have a nothing smile, that's true, but that? That wasn't nothing. You had significant thought behind that. Not just the random, oh, wow, I actually really like the color of that stove kind of thought, but like _real_ thought."

"The color of that stove?"

"Yeah, you know, not white, not black, but bisque, that nice in between shade," Lane said. "That's a nothing thought that might go with a nothing smile if you happen to have an impossibly bisque refrigerator. But that's _so_ not the smile you had."

"You get a smile at a bisque stove?"

"Have you _tried_ to match a bisque refrigerator? Until you do, trust me, finding the right stove is totally worth that kind of smile. But you're still avoiding the question."

She sighed. "You're just so happy," Rory said.

Lane narrowed her eyes, clearly skeptical. "Yeah. And?"

"And I think that's great," Rory said. "Really, really great. I'm happy for you and so I smiled. You're my best friend, Lane, and I'm sorry I haven't been here every step of the way, but it's so great to see you _here_. Bisque stove and all."

Lane's expression softened. "I'd like to see you here, too," Lane said. "Well, not married and trying to manage three young children with the only highlight of your life being a bisque stove, but happy."

"I know," Rory said. "And truthfully, I wonder if the rest of it wouldn't be so great."

Lane looked incredulous. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, I've seen how happy you are," Rory said. "I just, well, maybe the whole settling down and family thing isn't all that bad."

"Are you serious? You've never thought about _anything_ except getting out of here, about doing the next great, best thing."

"Well, you only dreamed about the band."

"You excused yourself in high school biology when they talked about how babies were made."

"You didn't see me in Life Skills when they _showed_ it."

"The baby video, right," Lane remember. "That woman must have been on some good drugs, though, because I was nowhere near that calm."

Rory blanched. "I don't think we need to go into the details."

"Exactly," Lane said. "That's what I'm talking about. You can't even _talk_ about giving birth."

"Well, maybe I'd adopt!"

"You had your mother write you a note to get you out of taking home the fake baby."

"Those things were just annoying."

"It was the only time in school I ever saw you try to get out of work."

"Like a piece of plastic with sensors and a speaker can really teach you about motherhood."

"You don't like real babies any more than the fake variety."

"Well, they cry all the time."

"And poop. And pee. And spit up. The spit up is the killer. Much more common and much harder to keep track of. You think you're good, but next thing you know, you're out and you've got white stuff on your back."

"Okay, fine, maybe you're right, the domestic life isn't for me. Sheesh, my future children thank you for their nonexistence."

"Aw, now that's sad. My kids need little friends who can grow up into their little prom dates and then they can fall in love and get married and we'll get to be in-laws to each other's kids."

Rory brightened. "You'd let my kids marry yours?"

"I wouldn't want anyone else."

"I'm flattered."

"You better get cracking, though. Steve and Kwan aren't getting any younger."

"What if I have all boys?"

"Really, I'm still getting past the idea of you having kids at all."

"It's all good in an abstract sense."

"Well," Lane said, raising her juice glass. "To your abstract children."

Rory raised hers and clinked it to Lane's. "And to your bisque stove."

"I'll drink to that."

And so they did.


	36. Chapter 36

A/N: Review replies are behind but if I didn't post now, I'd be late, so I'll do replies this weekend. As for this chapter, major plot point ahead. And Madbyme, your speculation a bit ago was uncanny--you'll see :) Thanks all!

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Rory figured she could probably spend a good couple of weeks, months maybe, killing time. Letting life happen. There would be plenty to do: breakfast with Lane, work at the paper, lunch at Luke's. Plenty that didn't involve defining where she was with Dean. Plenty that didn't involve figuring out what to do with a twenty grand stepping stone to whatever great thing lay beyond the horizon.

Because she needed to live today, she decided. Just like Lane. Like her mother and Luke and even Dean. They were all living where they were at and they were making it work and Rory had chased the horizon enough in her life.

Too bad fate didn't feel like listening to her.

When she let herself in the house, she could hear her mother scurrying in the kitchen. "Rory?"

Shutting the door, Rory went in. "I thought you had to work."

"I'm a little late today," Lorelai said, stuffing the remnant of a scone into her mouth. "Michel likes to do mornings on his own sometimes so sometimes I let him, you know, so he can be all anal retentive and rude without me there to hinder his anal retentive rudeness."

"It's nearly eleven."

"I know," her mother said. "I sort of lost track of time."

"What were you doing?"

"It's not important."

"You're not watching _One Life to Live_ again, are you?"

Her mother's face fell. "Maybe."

Rory shook her head. "You're impossible."

"Yeah, well," her mother said. "I need to get going before Michel notices that I'm late at least once a week and that it's not just to indulge his eccentricities."

"Good luck with that," Rory said. "I have to write an article about the renovations of the historic drinking fountain downtown."

"We have a historic drinking fountain?"

"Apparently. Built in 1915, though with surprisingly gothic design."

"A gothic drinking fountain?"

"Flying buttresses and all."

"Where?"

"You know, right down the street for Doose's, built into the sidewalk right next to that stationery shop."

"Really?"

"I went to see it," Rory confirmed.

"Huh."

"It's very historic."

"Well, you write your article then," her mother said, riffling through her purse. "Oh!"

"Oh?"

"Oh, there's a message for you," her mom said.

"If it's Ned, he should know I told him I'd have the piece done by tomorrow."

"It's not Ned," her mother said, and her voice sounded different. Quieter. More serious. Grown up.

This made Rory pause. She didn't exactly have an active social life and Dean would have called her cell phone and it wasn't like Luke called her and Lane was too busy and-- "Then who?" she asked.

Lorelai held out a napkin, upon which was scrawled a number. "I don't think _who_ is really the right question," she said. "How about _why_?"

Rory got it, she did, but she almost couldn't believe it. Her chest tightened a little. "A job offer?"

Her mother nodded.

Her mind raced. She'd sent out a plethora of applications, near and far. Some of the bigger papers. Some international organizations. She'd covered the full gamut--after all, she had nothing to lose. She'd already survived leaving one job, not to mention the disappointments of her first job search all those years ago, so a little rejection really wouldn't kill her.

But she was getting a call back.

"Really?" she asked, because it seemed too good to be true. Too simple. A call back from any of those applications was too big to be real. It was like a pipe dream. It was like holding her acceptance letter to Yale, like getting that call about the job on the campaign trail, like having the editor-in-chief of the Detroit Free Press shake her hand and say _welcome to the team_. Big things, important things, and this time she just couldn't believe it.

She'd been waiting for it, though. This was what she said she'd wanted. The next great opportunity. And it was happening. And she didn't have a clue what to do.

"Really," her mom said, pushing the napkin closer to her.

Rory took it, looking numbly down at the number, at her mother's handwriting scrawling her future down. "Well," she said.

Lorelai rolled her eyes. "Very poignant," she said. "I'm so glad we spent all that money for you to go to Yale and say _well_."

Glaring up at her mother, she just shook her head. "I'm going to my room."

As she was leaving, she could hear her mother complaining, going on as only her mother could, but for once Rory actually didn't hear her. Couldn't. She couldn't hear anything. There was just the phone number and the idea that it was all coming true.

-o-

Decisions.

Hard ones, easy ones, meaningless ones, life-altering ones. Decisions.

Life, in so many ways, was nothing more than a string of decisions, one choice right after another, built upon one another. A choice here, an action there, and suddenly that was all there was, all she could be reduced to.

She _chose_ to go to Chilton. She _chose _to go to Yale. She chose to go on the campaign trail, she chose the Detroit Free Press. She even _chose_ to come home again in all the ways that mattered.

She chose Jess. She chose Logan. But it occurred to her that she'd never really chosen Dean. He'd always chosen her, and she'd just gone along for the ride.

That said something about her. It said she was ambitious, never satisfied. Always climbing, always ascending to something greater, something more. She never settled—not for public school, not for her first boyfriend. She wanted _more_.

She usually _got_ more.

Now, back home, there was a history of choices behind her and twenty thousand dollars and the world at her fingertips. So why was the only thing she really _wanted_ the one thing that money couldn't buy? Why was the one thing she wanted so close to her and yet so impossible to attain?

Twenty thousand dollars to make her dreams come true. To pack her stuff up and move halfway around the world and do what other people only _dreamed _about.

Rory could picture herself. Jet-setting, seasoned, well-traveled. Bylined with some of the most important stories of her time. Meeting new people, seeing new places. Stars Hollow would be aglow with her success. Their golden child. She didn't doubt her send off would be even grander than before—more food, more people, more pomp and circumstance.

Her fingers hesitated over her cell phone, hovering right over the numbers. She could still hear the offer. _Ms. Gilmore, we'd be thrilled to have you as a member of the New York Times. We've read your work. Your portfolio is impressive. We can offer you more opportunities than you've had before. A traveling position. Possible correspondence work internationally. And we need you immediately._

A dream come true.

It was her fantasy. That one thing she had wanted all those years ago, the one thing she had wanted but been denied. A place at the New York Times. Rubbing shoulders with the journalists she salivated over, living it, feeling it, being a part of it.

Immediately.

Possible correspondence work internationally. Away from home. Away from Stars Hollow, from her mother, from Luke. From Dean.

She'd done it before. She could do it again. In style. twenty thousand dollars to uproot and make a new place for herself.

It was everything. Everything she'd wanted and aspired to. The job of all jobs, the one she had always wanted, the one she had never imagined even hesitating about. _Everything_.

Everything except that one thing. That one thing she'd found by coming back here. It wasn't as simple as home or as family or even as Dean. It was something inside of her. Something she hadn't known she needed or wanted.

Something like stability. Something like connection. Something like love.

And she knew what she needed to do.

-o-

The first person she wanted to tell—the _only _person she _needed_ to tell—was Dean.

She found him at the stereo shop. Going straight to the counter, Rory felt flushed and her heart fluttered. Dean was working, he was always working, and it took all her self-control not to blurt it right then.

He looked up and smiled at her. "You look happy," he said.

"I am," she said. "I am happy. Very happy. Hey! Happy Gilmore!"

Dean looked confused. "What?"

"Never mind. The point is I need to talk to you."

He quirked his head to the side. "Is this one of those Gilmore moments where you simply need to express the unabashed joy you seem to be feeling in some spontaneously random way?"

"Not exactly," Rory said. "I need to express it in a very, very specific way."

"Which is?"

She glanced around. A pair of teenagers were talking over by the surround sound display and Gilbert was stocking the batteries. "Can we get out of here? Just for a minute," she assured him quickly. "I know you have to work and all and so I don't really mean to take up all your time but I need to talk to you so I guess I kind of do mean to take up your time but I promise it's for a very good reason."

He raised his eyebrows. "There's not a book sale or something that we're missing, is there?" he asked. "I don't usually see you quite so excessively verbose unless there's an election coming up or something."

"Better," she said.

"Better than politics? Or better than a book sale?"

"Better than anything," she said.

He looked surprised and impressed and a little frightened, which Rory figured was kind of to be expected, since she was nearly vibrating with the anticipation. "Okay," he said.

By the time Dean had entrusted the store to Gilbert, Rory was already at the edge of her patience. She knew Dean liked to be responsible and all, but she was pretty sure that Gilbert knew about how to open the cash register in case the printer balled up. And though Gilbert was certainly not of the technological generation, she was also fairly confident that he knew the ins and outs of the credit card scanner.

There was thorough but this was ridiculous. Clearly, May's obsessive tendencies had rubbed off a bit on Dean or maybe it was the fastidious rules that everyone had been harping on him about since his flare up with the ulcer. Whatever it was, Rory didn't care. Normally she would be all for Dean's careful ways, but right now, she needed to talk to him. She needed to tell him. _Now_.

Finally on the street, Rory realized she didn't know quite how to say it. At all. There were a million ways to actually say it of course, but this was big, important, and--

"Do you think he'll be okay?"

Dean was glancing behind him, looking a bit forlornly at the store.

Was he _really_ still worried about Gilbert? "I'm sure he's fine."

"I just haven't left him in charge that often," Dean said. "I mean, a little, sure, but with the bills being the way they are, I've just been putting even more time in there to try to turn the numbers around."

"I know," Rory said. She had been missing him because of it. But that wasn't the point. It wasn't. She didn't drag him away to make him worry.

"He's worked there for years, though."

"And years," Rory said. "So it's good. Really. And you know you're not supposed to be worrying about things like that. It's not good for you."

That wasn't what she wanted to say. Not at all. If she could just think, if Dean could just give her two seconds to get her words together, because this wasn't the time to ramble, it wasn't the time to babble or to beat around the bush.

Dean looked a little chagrined, which seemed to also make him a little annoyed as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I'm taking the meds just fine, _mother_."

"Hey!" Rory protested. "Bite your tongue."

"You're the one lecturing me."

"Because you won't stop worrying for five minutes so I can talk to you."

"Well, you're the one coming in the middle of the day. I wasn't ready."

"Dean--"

"Things are busy," he said. "I mean, we're getting an entirely new shipment of speakers and I have to phase out the old ones, but I'm not sure how to do it. We've got too many in inventory to just let them sit there, but the technology's just not comparable--"

She reached out and grabbed his arm, effectively pulling him to a halt. "Dean, just--just _listen_," she said, her voice hinging on desperation.

He fell silent, his brow furrowed. "Okay," he replied slowly.

She took a deep breath, tucking her hair behind her ears obsessively. "I was offered a job at the New York Times."

His face went blank for a moment before realization set in. "Oh," he said. Then he smiled. "That's great. It's what you wanted, right? I mean, what, you'd get to live in New York? You love New York, and it's a big paper, it's like _the_ paper--"

She just shook her head. "You don't understand. I'm _not_ taking the job."

Carefully, he raised his eyebrows, his face taking on the innocent look of a five-year-old. "You're not?"

"No," Rory said. "I mean, I was going to. It was everything I wanted, everything I could have hoped for and more. I mean, it was perfect, like, surreally perfect and I was sitting there thinking about it, thinking about my life on the road and all the things I'd get to see, the things I'd get to write and I kept thinking about how happy I should be, but..."

"But what?"

She sighed, her shoulder sagging as she looked at him. "But I wasn't. I wasn't happy at all. Because no matter what that life held, what that life was all about, _you_ weren't there."

He swallowed a little, looking almost afraid.

But she'd come this far. She couldn't turn back. She wouldn't. She needed to say it, even more than he needed to hear it. "And I was sitting there, and all I could hear was my mother telling me that love wasn't about what you got out of it, but it was about what you put into it. She was telling me about sacrifice and about giving things up for someone else and I realized that I'd never lived like that before. I'd never tried. But you--I mean, that's completely you. _You_ are like the prime example of how to love. And I've never appreciated that. Never even came close. But I get it now. I get why you're staying, I get why you're content with that. And I _love _that about you. I love everything about you. Dean, I _love_ you. I mean, I totally, completely love you and I would give up everything to be with you."

He was watching her, almost staring at her, his eyes wide and confused and just plain uncertain. "Rory, I--"

"You shouldn't believe me, I know," she continued quickly. "I mean, I've given you no reason at all to trust me, to give me a chance or anything. And you don't have to. You don't ever have to. I've said sorry to you before, but I'm not sure I ever really got just how badly I treated you. How you loved me and I was more than content just to let you give your love while giving so little in return. You are so _right_ to just ignore me, to never give me another chance, but--but, I can't change how I feel. Just...let me be your friend."

His mouth opened and closed, then opened again. "I can't ask you to do that."

"You don't _have_ to ask me," she said quickly. "That's the thing. I'm not _asking _for anything. Anything except your friendship, okay? I get why you didn't want to date me. I mean, the more I think about it, I wonder why anyone would ever want to date me, which is why I'm doing this."

Dean shook his head. "Doing what? Rory, you can't possibly be happy working as a reporter for the Stars Hollow Gazette. I can't let you--"

"Yes," she said, strongly now. "You can. You don't really have a choice. Besides, I'm not just a reporter at the Stars Hollow Gazette."

He cocked his head. "You're...not?"

She grinned, holding out a piece of paper. "Nope," she said. "Take it. I want you to see just how serious I am."

Tentatively, he took it, unfolding the paper. She could see him doubt in his eyes, remembering past letters, past things she'd given to him like this--never good things, never things that made him happy. And it was like he was eighteen reading the note about why the car he'd made was wrecked. Why his heart was going to be broken.

But this was different. This was different.

He looked back up at her. Blank. "You--are you serious?"

She shrugged a little. "I had to spend the money some way," she said.

"So, you--you--"

"Bought the paper," she confirmed with a nod.

"You bought the paper?"

She nodded readily. "I mean, maybe it was a little impulsive but there's nothing else I wanted. Nothing else I could ever want as much as being here near you. I mean, this way at least I can decide what I want to write and I can finally change that horrifically outdated mast head, but the thing is, the real thing is, that even if I had to work as a reporter, it'd be worth it. You're worth it. And I'm sorry I never saw that before."

He looked at her, then the paper again. "Rory. I mean. I don't know what to say."

She wanted him to say that he loved her to, that they could be together, that they could have their happily ever after, now that Rory finally realized she wanted. But she had to remember--love wasn't about what she got out of it. And she'd hurt Dean more than she could ever imagine. She'd broken his heart, ruined his self-esteem, and she had no _right_ to expect him back. Ever.

"You don't have to say anything," she said. "I mean, since I'm not going anywhere, there's plenty of time for that."

He looked up at her again, more steadily this time. "You promise me that you'd stay either way," he said. "That it doesn't matter what I say now."

She tried to smile, to look sure of herself. "Yes," she said. "I mean, I do hold the deed to the paper, so no matter what, I've got quite a project to undertake."

"I just--I mean, I can't believe it. That you're staying."

He sounded shocked, that much was true. There was something else there, too, but she just couldn't tell what it was. "And that's a...good thing?" she asked, hopefully.

"Yeah," he said. "I mean, I think so. I just--I don't really know what to say."

She reached out and took his hand in hers, smiling up at him. "That's okay," she said, noticing how the light seemed to dance in his eyes, feeling like she could look at them forever and not get tired. "I'll be here when you do."

He swallowed a little, and then nodded. "Okay," he said. "Okay."

It wasn't a declaration of love. It wasn't a promise of a future. It wasn't even a reciprocation of the sacrifice Rory had made.

But for now, it was a start. And for now, it was enough. She may never win him back, but it was enough.

That was the thing about sacrifice. It wasn't about her. It was about the other person. And all she could do was wait and see.


	37. Chapter 37

A/N: So Rory's decision is made. But is Dean's? We have a few more chapters to see :)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Dean wasn't the only one who was surprised.

"You what?" her mother asked. Which would have been normal enough had her mother not asked it three times already.

Rory sighed. "I bought the Gazette."

It was a rare thing, to see her mother so completely and utterly flabbergasted. So rare that Rory almost didn't have the heart to be amused. "But--I mean--_why_?" Lorelai asked.

That was a question she hadn't quite been prepared for. From other people, maybe, but not from her mother. She'd kind of supposed her mom would _get it_. At least, maybe she'd hoped so. Because she wasn't sure she could explain it herself.

So she shrugged. "I wanted to."

"You wanted to? But what about the job?"

"It wasn't going to make me happy," Rory said, and at least that part was easy enough.

"And living here will?"

"Not necessarily."

"Not necessarily? What do you mean, not necessarily? You just spent twenty grand on a small town newspaper that--" her mother stopped mid-sentence as realization dawned on her. "Oh, my God. You didn't, did you?"

She couldn't deny it. Wouldn't. She didn't even _want_ to. "I love him."

Her mother's shoulder dropped along with her mouth. "You love him? _Love him_ love him? The sappy you-complete-me, lifelong commitment, love him? I mean, are you _sure_?"

"Well, I did just buy a small town newspaper that may or may not make me happy."

"Good point," her mother said, sobering a little. She drew herself together. "Have you told him?"

Again, more questions she didn't want to answer. Because those weren't the easy answers. "I told him."

"And he said?"

"He said he couldn't say anything," she said. "He couldn't make promises."

"Aw, honey," her mom said, her lips quirked with a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry."

"I knew it could happen," she said with a shrug. "I mean, that was the risk. After everything that's happened, after all the ways he's changed, it was possible. I mean, that was the point, wasn't it? About sacrifice?"

Her mother's brow knit together. "You were really listening to that one, huh? I mean, of all the ones you actually _listen_ to--"

"You were right," Rory interjected. "So, really, I should be thanking you."

"Are you sure? I mean, I think if we go back and talk to Ned that he'd--"

Rory shook her head, adamant. "No," she said. "I'm sure. This is what I want. I mean, I don't know _why_ but I want it. But I feel like it's my one chance at really being happy. Nothing else will ever come close."

Her mother was watching her, almost studying her.

"You think I'm crazy," Rory said, looking down and blushing. "Stupid and romantic and naive--"

"No," her mother said. "Not at all. I'm just sitting here wondering when you grew up."

"Well," Rory said. "After you did, I figured I had no choice but follow."

"Ooh, low blow!" her mother said.

"Again, I learned from the best," Rory said with a rueful smile.

"Well, there is one good thing about this," her mother said lightly.

"Oh? And what's that?"

 "Free advertising," she said.

"Seriously? I blow twenty grand and you want free advertising?"

"Have you seen the price for a two-by-four ad? It's price gouging in the extreme. The only thing more outrageous is Yellow Book."

"Then complain to Yellow Book."

"Yes, but you don't _own_ Yellow Book."

"Exactly."

Lorelai opened her mouth and then shut it. "You know, sometimes I get the feeling that you don't truly appreciate what it means that I'm your _mother_."

"Seriously, how could I forget?" Rory asked.

"You may _know _it, but you don't appreciate it."

Rory shrugged. "Semantics."

"Says the young journalist."

"Says the tired daughter."

"God, I love semantics."

"Who doesn't?"

"I'm glad you bought the paper."

Rory just smiled. "I figured that was what you were trying to say."

"Lost in all the semantics."

"I think it's beginning to lose its meaning now."

"Probably," her mother agreed. "But for a romantic, crazy, newspaper owning daughter, I think you have bigger things to worry about."

Maybe. But good things, Rory decided. Very good things.

-o-

Dean may have been reserved in his response to Rory's big move (or lack thereof, really), but her mother decidedly was not. After ascertaining that Rory was indeed set on this decision and was oddly and maturely at peace with it, her mother decided that it needed to be celebrated. And how else to celebrate except to throw a party?

This one, thankfully, was not a full-town affair. No, it would be a quieter, more subdued event, just a few close friends and some snacks.

At least, that was the way it started.

By the time it was done, Lorelai had a guest list of seventy-five and Sookie was breaking out all the stops with the catering, the centerpiece being, naturally, rum cake.

It was all very exciting, Rory was sure, though she had to admit, she wasn't exactly giddy with anticipation. She did not regret her decision, but neither did she feel particularly like celebrating it. But, like her mother had said, love was sacrifice, and perhaps this party wasn't just about her, but about her mother and Luke and everyone else who felt like they had some kind of vested interest in Rory.

Which made it okay. Because Rory was beginning to realize that she hadn't gotten here on her own. Yes, she went to Yale. Yes, she got the jobs. Yes, she did her own writing. But who she was, everything _good_ in her, she couldn't take credit for. Because she couldn't help but think of May Forester and her expectations for Dean, the way she treated him, and know she was lucky that indeed, all that had ever been wanted from her was that she be herself. That alone was surely cause for celebration, rum cake and all.

Celebrations and rum cake were one thing, though. Decorations were another.

"Maybe an ice sculpture," Sookie surmised, with a far off look in her eye. "You know, something tactful and journalistic."

They had convened at Luke's, which only seemed appropriate. That way while she was huddled by force at a table with her mother and Sookie, they could pull Luke into the conversation on a whim. Why they thought Luke's opinion would actually matter to them, she wasn't quite sure, because she was pretty certain that even her own opinion was pretty superfluous at this point. When party planning was underway, all thoughts of sanity went out the window.

Considering how little sanity the lot of them had to begin with, that was a scary thing.

"An ice typewriter!" her mother exclaimed, eyes bright as she gripped her cup of coffee closer.

Sookie looked at her curiously. "You think someone will make an ice typewriter."

Rory rolled her eyes. "No ice typewriters."

"An ice pencil?" Sookie offered.

"No ice _anything_," Rory said. "It's the middle of summer. It wouldn't last more than two minutes _anyway_."

Her mother drew her eyebrows together in a pout. "Party pooper."

"But it's my party."

"More reason not to poop it."

"I don't even see why we need decorations in the first place."

"To set the atmosphere!" Sookie said, somewhat dismayed.

"I hardly think that there is an _atmosphere_ for buying a paper," Rory pointed out. "It's not one of your common life events. I mean, what do you think we're going to do? Make origami animals out of newsprint?"

Sookie's eyes lit up and her mother grinned. "I like it," her mom said. "And fairly cost effective if we just raid the recycle bins before the paper."

"Great," Rory said with exasperation. "Now we have to sneak around in the middle of the night digging through trash. Not to mention how covered with ink our fingers will be after all that folding. Hardly one of the cleanest ideas we've ever had."

Her mother shrugged. "It's all worth it for you."

As if the conversation couldn't get any _worse_, that was when Luke came by to top off their drinks. Not that that was _all _bad, because more caffeine was definitely an improvement. "What's worth it?"

"Legally questionable practices to obtain newsprint in order to create festive yet original decorations for her party," Lorelai informed him with a serious nod.

"That all?"

"Well, and perhaps invest in an ice sculpture."

"Why not just provide everyone with those little reporter hats and notebooks," Luke said. "Require everyone to take notes while the party goes on and write an article."

"Oh! And best article wins a prize!" Sookie exclaimed.

Rory just sighed. "I give up," she said. "If you are intent on torturing guests, then I can claim no part of it."

"Aw, come on," her mother cajoled. "Get enough rum cake in you and things will be great."

"For that many people, that's a lot of rum," Rory observed.

"Even better!" her mother said.

Luke snorted. "A house full of people, wearing dorky little hats, armed with pencils and notebooks with lots of rum. Nope, I can't think of anything better."

"See," Rory said. "Luke agrees with me."

He held up his hand, the coffee in his pot sloshing precariously. "I agree with no one," he said.

"He's very diplomatic," Lorelai said confidentially.

"Which makes him very smart," Sookie added.

"I learn," Luke said. "Let me know if you need anything."

"Someone to rescue me from my life, thank you," Rory tried but Luke was already on to the next table.

"So, I can handle the newsprint project," her mother said. "What about the guests? Are they all confirmed?"

Sookie nodded. "I believe we have most of the RSVPs back. The turnout looks good. Even Ida Burmeister is coming."

"Ida Burmeister?" Rory asked. "The recluse who lives two doors down? But I've never even _talked_ to her."

"Well, yeah, because she's a recluse," her mother said.

"So why did you invite her?"

"Normally I wouldn't, but it turns out, she loved the rum cake _so _much that she actually was put upon to go to the store to buy the necessary ingredients."

"I heard about that," Sookie said. "Poor woman. Nearly had a panic attack at Doose's because she couldn't find the rum."

"So I nearly killed a ninety-two year old woman?"

"Which is why I had to invite her," her mother said. "Because, really, risking her health for rum cake is a sure sign that she's fully supportive of your work. And besides, I told her there'd be rum cake to be had."

Possibly reasonable, though notably eccentric--not that that was altogether unusual. Still, Rory was beginning to envision something akin to stale graduation parties where half the guests were relative strangers to her and she was subjected to hours of making small talk with them so as not to appear to be ungrateful for their presence. "Is there anyone coming that I'm actually going to _know_?" Rory asked.

"Lane's bringing the kids," her mom offered. "Oh, and I'll be there. Sookie, too. And Luke."

"I was hoping for someone who wouldn't be subjecting me to embarrassing stories about how I actually managed to write a recipe about rum cake," Rory said.

"Dean Forester's coming," Sookie said, well, blurted really, earning a purposeful stare from her mother.

Rory couldn't control her involuntary flinch, nor could she contain the sudden rapid increase of her heart rate. "Dean?"

Her mother smiled, clearly aware of Rory's blatant response. "Yep."

"But he works," Rory said, her breathing feeling strained. "I mean, he works all the time. I don't think he'd be able to."

"Well," Sookie said. "I have it on pretty good authority he'll be there."

"From who?" Rory demanded. Embarrassed, she tried to shrug away her impatience. "I mean, who could _possibly_ tell you that? These days, Dean barely even has time for phone calls." And she should know. Having tried to call him consistently, she'd only had a fifty percent success rate. Yes, he was amenable to seeing her, but that didn't mean he was readily available, through no fault of his own, of course. Running a business took time and work and what else, she wasn't really sure, though it occurred to her that in about two weeks she was going to find out.

"His sister, of course," her mother said. "Apparently, the entire Forester clan is coming out to wish you well."

"The entire clan?" Rory asked. Knowing Dean was coming was one thing. Clara would make sense as well. In fact, she didn't doubt that Dean would come with Clara on his arm, he was just that sweet and she was just that cute. But-- "Even May?"

"Even May," her mother said, and Rory could not help but notice how much her mother seemed to be relishing that tidbit.

"But the woman _despises_ me," Rory said. "Why did you even invite her?"

"Well, it was a little masochistic, maybe," her mother said, fingering her coffee cup lightly. "But then I realized it would torture her more than it would torture us, so I had to. Imagine her, coming and having to be polite and eat the rum cake like she actually was a normal human being. It's priceless."

"And Dean's coming?" Rory asked, wishing her voice would stop shaking. She was sounding like some school girl again with some ridiculous little school girl crush. "I mean, he'll be there?"

"That's okay, right?" her mother hedged gently. "I mean, you're acting kind of weird."

"No, it's good," Rory said quickly, too quickly. Subtle, she was not. "I just--haven't seen him in awhile. It'll be good. Very good."

Lorelai shared a sideways glance with Sookie, knowing and amused. Rory blushed. Her inability to be subtle didn't matter; her mother would see through her anyway.

Taking a sip of her drink, Rory swallowed then cleared her throat. "So, uh, do you even know how to _make_ anything using origami?" Rory asked. Obvious, perhaps. But her need to protect her own vulnerabilities was strong, even if it was nothing more than a facade. And Dean was definitely a vulnerability. He hadn't promised her anything, so she wasn't sure why she was clinging to it all like he was.

Because it was all she had. All she still wanted. It wasn't over, and that meant she had hope. He hadn't said _no_.

He hadn't said no. Rory realized that for the first time since she'd been back in Stars Hollow, he hadn't said _no_.

Now he was coming to her party.

Was she looking too much into it?

Maybe.

Did she care?

Possibly.

Somehow, though, that didn't change anything.


	38. Chapter 38

A/N: Okay, so one more chapter without Dean and then I promise, we'll get some resolution about where Rory and Dean end up. But there are a few loose ends that I wanted to tie up in this chapter, so hopefully you'll all bear with me. Thanks!

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

It sounded well and good to have a party. It really did. Kind of sweet even, despite the utter over-the-top-ness that had followed from the initial idea. It sounded good to think about the food, and even the decorations and the guest list.

It sounded good--until they started actually having to put it together.

Rory had been instructed, quite clearly and multiple times, that it was not her responsibility. Her party; therefore, her day to relax. Celebration did not involve work for the one who was being celebrated. That was Lorelai Gilmore logic and Rory was hesitant to dispute it.

However, sitting back and watching felt vaguely like watching a train barreling forward on an inevitable course right off a cliff.

Which was really rather an odd image and she realized she needed to watch a western sometime soon.

It didn't make matters any better, she supposed, that she had nothing to do.

She didn't have any outstanding assignments to work on--Ned was, after all, in the throes of his last fling with the Gazette. Which basically meant there was more doughnut consumption than ever and he had actually taken to doing nearly all the writing himself during the last days of his ownership.

The deal was set to close on Monday. In two more days, Rory would own the paper.

Today, however, she was a lowly freelance journalist who was bumming off her mother and stuffing her face full of cheese puffs watching other people work.

"You're eating cheese puffs," Sookie observed as she bustled through the living room.

Rory looked at the tub, which was still two thirds full. "You want some?"

"You know, I made, like, fifteen kinds of snacks for tonight."

"Only fifteen?"

"Yeah, I'm slipping," Sookie said, moving into the kitchen. "Davey was up all last night after Jackson let him watch Godzilla."

"Godzilla would like cheese puffs," Rory called after her.

"Which is why it's a horror movie," Sookie said as she reappeared empty handed.

"You sure you don't want some?"

"I've got to go bring in the rest of the food and then help your mom set up the chairs and I think she'd probably freak out if I stained all the table covers with cheese."

Rory looked critically at her fingers. "Table covers?"

Sookie turned back to her, face aglow. "They're made of newsprint!" she exclaimed. "Only we folded them and taped them and made edging--"

"You made edging?"

"Sort of like Oragami."

"I thought we agreed simple," Rory said.

Sookie was moving back toward the front door. "You'll love it."

"There's no ice sculptures, right?"

"You'll love it," Sookie said, opening the door. "You'll love it!"

As the door closed behind her, Rory shook her head. "Newsprint table covers," she muttered. "And they're worried about cheese stains."

Then she thought of her mother setting up table, of Sookie cooking food, of Luke unloading chairs. Of Dean behind the counter at the stereo shop.

And of herself, cheese stained fingers, in the Gazette. It wasn't about being spoiled. It wasn't about getting everything she ever wanted. It was about belonging.

-o-

And belong she did.

If she'd ever had doubts, seeing their yard fill up with neighbors and friends, old men from the coffee shop and little girls from the dance studio made it pretty clear. These were her people. She was one of them.

Either that, or they were all here for the cake.

Perhaps a little of both.

Nonetheless, the party was a good idea. Not because she wanted the attention, not because she needed the food, but because it sort of made her feel like she'd made the right decision. And with twenty thousand bucks tied up in the whole thing, the validation was pretty important.

Good food, good people, good times...and Nancy.

Who had invited Nancy?

Of course, they had invited Nancy. She was one of Rory's coworkers, probably one of her employees now if she thought about it hard enough.

But Nancy.

As if seeing her scowling face wasn't enough at work, now she had to face her in a social setting at well. And the woman was moving through the crowds straight for her.

Rory looked from side to side, hoping for an out. Her mother was off trying to cool a heated dispute between Luke and Taylor. Sookie was trying to wrangle Martha from flashing her backside at the Beckett boys. Lane was being attacked by all three of her children. All friendly fallbacks were preoccupied.

In short, there was no way out. Except maybe to interject herself into Kirk's animated conversation with Babette's latest kitten, but she wasn't that desperate.

"Quite a party you have here," Nancy said when she got close enough.

"My mother--you know her. Never does things halfway."

Nancy nodded absently. "Looks like the entire town is here."

"It is amazing the number of people who can fit in one yard," Rory agreed. "I'm glad you could make it, though." It sounded like the afterthought it was, and Rory was reminded why she'd never gone into acting.

Nancy's mouth flattened. "I only came for one reason," she said.

"Sookie's rum cake? It is pretty spectacular. And you know we get a _great_ discount on her services," Rory said, almost out of instinct. She knew that wasn't the reason. She knew the reason exactly. And she knew her answer.

Nancy wanted to know if she still had her position. For all her snooty behavior, she had needs and wants just like everyone else. Rory could respect that.

And in the grander scheme of things, she'd need Nancy to keep the paper up--she couldn't write it _all_ herself, no matter how much time she was willing to throw into the thing.

Still, that didn't mean she wouldn't enjoy tormenting the woman a bit. It was Nancy after all.

"I was just wondering if this change in ownership was going to precede other significant changes," Nancy said, her voice tight.

It would have been so easy to say. Even somewhat gratifying. After the way Nancy had treated her, treated _everyone_ on the staff, it wasn't like the woman didn't have it coming. With her sparse experience outside the Gazette, it wasn't like Nancy had fail-proof credentials.

But. There just had to be a but.

But Nancy was part of the paper. She was a part of the town. She may not have been the voice of Stars Hollow, she may have been a conniving, self-absorbed bitch half the time, but everyone had their place, oddly enough.

Sure, Rory could change that in her small corner of Stars Hollow. But it occurred to her, now that she held such power, just why things always seemed to stay the same in small towns.

Because there was no place else for people to go. Perhaps that was a bit simplistic. Yes, people came and left. Families moved in and moved out. Kids went off to college, settled elsewhere. But, the real thing, the overall vibe, was constancy. It wasn't about small town values or something enigmatic. It was about predictable. About things being the same from one day to the next. There was comfort in that, and it wasn't Rory's place to disrupt it

People would miss Nancy's writing. They would miss her uppity presence at town events.

Worse, Nancy wouldn't have anywhere to go. She wasn't ready to move on like Ned had been.

Therefore, Rory could never fire her. Torment, yes. Fire, no.

"I was considering updating the mast head," Rory said with a shrug. "Though I am partial to the current fonts, even if we might benefit converting to an eleven column layout. The nine is just giving me a headache of threes."

Nancy stared at her, a little dumbfounded. "No other changes then? No...personnel changes?"

"I couldn't really let Conrad go no matter how often he ends up in debt. I think there's a certain section of Stars Hollow that's fond of him. Besides, without us, who would subsidize his gambling habits?"

"Well, if you're keeping Conrad, then is it safe to assume that you're keeping me, too? I know I'm not nearly as sociable as Conrad--"

"Conrad? Sociable? Perhaps lovably ridiculous, but--"

"Rory, you _know_ what I'm trying to say."

"Yes, I know what you're trying to say," Rory said with a sigh. "Look, Nancy, we haven't really gotten along and all, and while I think that was mostly instigated by you, it's not like I ran away from it either. We were both playing for whatever top position we thought there could be in a paper like this. You had thirty years' experience; I had youth and charisma. And I guess you could say that I won, since I am now owner, but that wasn't really a contest. I mean, I _bought_ the thing. So, even though technically I can do whatever I want now, it wouldn't really be very sporting just to fire you. Not to mention that it wouldn't make much business sense."

"Did you even understand anything in school when they told you that the first paragraph should have all the relevant information and the details come later?" Nancy asked, her brow thoroughly furrowed.

Rory couldn't help but grin. "Hey, that's the most journalistically sound thing I've heard you say since I've met you."

Nancy rolled her eyes. "My textbooks may have been from the seventies, but I did _read _them."

"You do know that the inverted pyramid is not the favored method of journalistic writing these days, right?"

"You're still avoiding the question," Nancy persisted.

"And you say I'm a little slow for a journalist," Rory said. "Yes. You've still got a job, assuming you want it. I mean, I can't say it will be the same, because I am not a 60-year-old man in a Hawaiian shirt. But I couldn't think right now of trying to replace the staff. You and Lyman and Dewey and Meredith--you're more this paper than anything else."

A hint of gratitude and a touch of relief colored Nancy's face, but she composed herself quickly, lest she be caught actually showing real emotion. "Well," she said. "I have worked there forever. I can't imagine life without it. Besides, it looks like you may need someone to keep you on your toes."

Someone, indeed. It had been Paris for years on end, a presence that had been sorely missed after college. Rory needed someone abrasive, someone endlessly conniving, almost immaturely competitive. It offered a strange sort of sanity and a real kind of focus. "And there's no one better than you for that role."

Nancy looked pleased. "And truth be told, I think you frighten Dewey," she confided. "And Lyman? He doesn't know whether to be attracted to you or to piss his pants when he sees you coming."

"Really?"

Nancy laid a hand on her arm. "Trust me," she said. "Not that he'd ever do anything, of course, because he feels the same way about his wife. Only whereas you still show restraint not to slap him upside the head, she definitely does not."

At that, Rory had to laugh. It was an image to consider. "So, I'll see you Monday?"

"Bright and early," Nancy agreed. "The copy on the Presbyterian church ice cream social will be ready to go. Pictures and all."

"Great," Rory said.

"Now," Nancy said. "Is this rum cake everything they say it is?"

"And more," Rory told her seriously.

"I refused to make it out of principle," she said. "But now that you're my boss, I figure it can't hurt to try it."

"Second table to the left and straight on till morning," Rory advised.

Nancy flashed a grin at her and made her way through the crowd.

-o-

Part of the advantage of the multitude of people present was that Rory had plenty of people to mingle with. True, that could be overwhelming--the sheer reality that she was the reason for the occasion obligated her to a certain level of friendliness and she was compelled to greet and thank each and every one, which was no easy task, especially considering that to properly do the job without seeming fake required a great deal of time and sincerity. Talkative, she was, but maintaining appropriate small talk with the entire population of Stars Hollow in one self-contained evening was a feat, even for her.

Nonetheless, the pros probably did outweigh the cons. Even with the exhaustive nature of the evening, she was sure to never be alone and she always had ample reason to excuse herself from any guest she did not wish to linger with. Given her mother's overzealous mailing list, that was truly a very good thing. Minimal time with Miss Patty, even less time with Taylor, a brief hello and a perfunctory nod to Kirk (because anything more was far too dangerous). Making the rounds without exposing herself to prolonged insanity, something which she likely already had and didn't need more of.

So to see a friendly and refreshingly sane face was, well, refreshing.

So much so that she nearly wanted to hug Clara Forester when she saw her. She'd already had hugged the entire South Side Bridge Club, so she was kind of in a hugging mindset, but she stopped herself just short of attacking the younger girl and settled for a wide smile instead. "You made it," she said, rather obviously, but it was a party, a party for her, so she was well beyond worrying about stating the obvious.

Clara beamed. "Of course I came," she said. "Why wouldn't I?"

Rory shrugged. "The desire to avoid the crazies, who I can promise you, are _all _here. Worse yet, by invitation."

Clara laughed at that, and held out a small bag, which was decked out with blue and green curled ribbon. "For you," she said. "Stars Hollow's latest business mogul."

"Thank you," Rory said, taking it. "You weren't supposed to bring gifts."

Clara shrugged. "Maybe," she agreed. Then she leaned in. "But it made my mother so _angry_ to go shopping for it that I couldn't resist."

"Well, who am I to get in the way of great mother/daughter bonding?"

"Exactly," Clara said. "Oh, and be on the lookout. She wants to _talk_ to you."

May wanted to talk to her? That could never be good. They had had few conversations, even before their blowup at the hospital.

"I know," Clara said, reading her features. "Though she's been asking a lot about you lately."

"Asking about me?"

"Yeah," Clara said. "About what you do, what you're hoping for."

Okay and that wasn't a bit stalkerish. Perhaps Rory needed to invest in window bars.

Then Clara shrugged, her conspiratorial tone lifting. "But _everyone_ is talking about you," she said. "They all thought you'd be going someplace far away and do something super exciting. So they've been trying to figure out why you bought the Gazette."

Rory could only smile at her. "Well, I guess I already did the big and exciting stuff, so I figured it was time for a change. You know, if everything is big and exciting then it sort of loses its big and exciting-ness. And I certainly don't want to have nothing big and exciting left to pursue, so I figured maybe simple was better."

Clara looked a little skeptical. "So you're just settling for now? But why all that money?"

"It's not settling," Rory amended quickly. "It's just--maybe I appreciate it more now. After traveling and Detroit, simple kind of feels good. Being someone is kind of good. You have no idea what it's like to move somewhere and just be so anonymous."

At that, Clara offered her a sympathetic smile. "Sometimes I think I want to get out of this town just so I can be anonymous again. There's nothing quite like being out past curfew _one night_ with a boy and having your mom find out about it before you even have a chance to figure out your lie."

Memory flared in Rory. Of Dean and the dance, Miss Patty's dance hall, an all-night accident. "And how it always turns out more dramatic than it is," she said. "Getting a cup of coffee by yourself turns into a depressive bout and an attempt to shun all company."

"And you wanted to come back why?" Clara asked.

"I think you'll understand someday," Rory assured her. "It's one of those things you don't really get until you've lived without it."

Clara seemed to accept that answer. "I don't think I so much want to get away from Stars Hollow as I do my mother," she admitted. "I love my mom, and I know things are rough for all of us right now, but I swear, sometimes she's certifiably insane. The way she treats me like I'm ten, the way she treats Dean like he can't manage anything."

"Your mother is quite a character," Rory agreed diplomatically. "Are you sure she wants to talk to me? I mean, I can't think of anyone she dislikes more."

"She really hates the afternoon cashier down at Doose's. Says he's far too self-invested."

"The short one with the dark hair?"

"And the eye makeup."

"Until Taylor made him stop wearing it," Rory concluded for her. "He may be self-invested, but my money's on him to become one of the next great emo-singers. He definitely has the look."

"Yes, well, I think she hates him more than you," Clara assured her. "But not by much. Oh, and here she comes. I'm going to get out of here before I get subjected to more scrutiny about why I don't know what I want to major in during college. Best of luck--oh and congratulations, Rory."

Before Rory could thank her, or better yet _stop_ her, Clara had disappeared into the crowd, leaving Rory staring after her and ever so vulnerably alone.

Turning to find her own escape, she turned abruptly into May Forester.

Rory didn't generally dislike people; that wasn't in her nature. She was inclined to see the good in people, or at least be pleasantly bemused by their faults. Especially when it came to the townies. Being away, she had a fondness for the eccentricities. They were quaint and homey.

But not May.

Never May.

If the last few months back home had taught her anything, it was that May Forester should only be dealt with sparingly and only out of necessity. May might have played the role of doting wife and mother, but her methods were still up for debate, as far as Rory was concerned. About the only thing the woman had going for her was that she did manage to have two fantastic children.

And that was the catch that made all the rest something she would just have to deal with. She hadn't talked to May since their blowout in the hospital. A blowout that had been justified, as far as Rory was concerned, but one that Dean had asked her not to repeat.

She didn't like the woman. But she liked Dean. So she had to be _civil_.

Which didn't seem like it should be that hard, but it was. It really, really was. Because of the way she still looked at Rory like a home wrecker. Because of the way she still treated Dean like a screw-up.

For Dean, though. For Dean.

"May," she said. "Hi."

May offered a polite smile. "I suppose congratulations are in order," May said, bristling a little. Somehow, Rory didn't quite buy the attempt as heartfelt.

Rory smiled anyway. "Thank you."

May looked at her and sighed. "I knew all along you were staying," she said. "The ladies at work all thought you would take off, but I could see it in your eyes."

"See what?"

May just shook her head, a reluctant smile on her face. "That _look_, dear. Everyone thought you wanted to go off and do great things. You probably even did, but what you really wanted was roots."

And the funny thing was that May was, well, _right_. All the choices in the world and the fact was that the one thing Rory really wanted was no further than her own backyard. Metaphorically speaking. She didn't really want to spend her entire life in her mother's house, but in this town, with these people.

With Dean.

May was watching her. "Buying the Gazette," she continued primly. "Quite a bold move. Ned Arlington's never been happier."

"Yes, well, I live to please," Rory ventured, unable to think of something else to say. Unable to really grasp what May was really going for in all this.

"Funny thing about love," May said. "It's about putting other first. It's the reason I followed Randy out here to begin with, all those years ago. I did _not_ want to go. I was a Chicago girl, through and through. And this place? So small. So quaint. But he wanted it. He loved that damned stereo shop."

"It's important to have dreams," Rory said. "And someone to stand by you through them--well, Randy was very lucky."

"I know what you think of me," May said, looking at her firmly. "I'm not a perfect mother, but I love my son. I've hated to see all he's gone through. How much he fell apart--sometimes it was easier to predict his next disaster rather than to wait for it to happen. Made things simple that way, manageable."

That made Rory's skin crawl. Listening to his mother talk about love and sacrifice and then talk about how little she believed in _Dean_. "I'm sure for you it did," Rory said, and she didn't hide the bitterness in her voice.

Nor did May miss it. She pursed her lips. "You don't know _everything_, dear," she said. "It was you, you know. That started this. How my son, my confident, beautiful boy, simply trailed after you, I never understood. And then to watch you lead him on and let him go like an old toy--well, _that _was hard to swallow. So I'm not the only one who needs to sit back and think about how I've treated Dean."

The worst part was, the really _awful_ part was, that she was _right_. May Forester was _right_.

Rory would never live this down. Not that she was going to tell anyone about it _ever_, but even in her own _mind_, she'd never live this down.

"We all use people the way we need to," May said. "It's not pretty, but it's true. Perhaps you and I are not all that different in the end." She paused and smiled, and Rory nearly shuddered, because it was a _real_ smile. "Scary, thought, isn't it?"

Downright horrifying. And, she was right _again_. All that Rory had hated May for--for putting Dean in a box, for all her expectations, for the way she took him for granted, used him--Rory had done the same. She'd done the same and expected him to come running back to her. At least May had the mother card to play--pushing a child out of your body sort of gave you a certain in that ex-girlfriends didn't apparently have.

May's fingers touched lightly on her arm. "I never liked you for what you did to Dean. But I'm pretty sure I know why you stayed, even if no one else does. So, maybe people _can _change."

All of that was still made perfect sense but hearing it from May--May Forester, Mrs. Forester, Dean's mother--was leaving Rory a little gob-smacked. At her own party, no less.

"Congratulations, dear," May said, moving past Rory. "I'm confident that you'll make the best of it."

The only thing Rory could think to say was "Thanks," which she did and it sounded rather pathetic, a little ridiculous and completely not enough. But this was like hell freezing over, the Cubs winning the World Series, and every other cliche impossibility Rory couldn't quite bring herself to remember at the moment.

"Oh, and Rory," May said, turning around. "Just so you know, I quit my job completely so I can spend more time at the store. You know, to help Dean out so he could have a little more time off. So he could take more breaks and whatnot. To do, well..._anything_." She shrugged suggestively. "Just so you know."

Just so she knew. Just so Rory knew that Dean had more free time. That Dean was available. That Dean's mother _approved_.

She'd never seen that one coming.

Wonders never ceased. At least, that was something she could hope for.


	39. Chapter 39

A/N: And now it's time to hear what Dean has to say. Before anyone freaks out one way or another, just remember there's one more chapter to go :)

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Rory saw him by the punch bowl.

That seemed like it should be significant for some reason. Like he was there trying to satisfy some deep thirst, that he was looking for something that he just couldn't find in a punch bowl.

Which would be a lot of things, if she thought about it. Because a punch bowl could satisfy about one need: the need to drink punch.

This line of thought wasn't getting her anywhere, especially not closer to Dean. If she was honest with herself, that was all she really wanted and all she really wanted him to want (well, in the reverse, anyhow).

Worse, she was going to be caught staring at her own party.

And why on earth did they have a punch bowl anyway? Hadn't Sookie heard of bottled soda?

That was when he looked up at her, making eye contact. She could only hope that her ever-so-smooth blink and turn was enough to hide the fact that she'd been staring.

Whether he noticed her impolite behavior or not, he finished ladling himself a drink before picking up a brownie on a napkin, all while flashing those white, white teeth (toothpaste commercial white, for goodness sakes, he could be a _model_) and those deep, dreamy dimples.

She needed to cut back on the alliteration. No more reading e.e. cummings before bed. Or first thing in the morning. Perhaps over lunch, but not while listening to music.

The smile on her face came to her naturally. Without hesitation, she made her way over to him, dodging the crowd, nodding absently at people who greeted her. Because this was another one of those things, those moments, that didn't _really_ happen in real life. Those times where the entire world faded away, everything just disappeared, except the one thing that mattered. The one thing she cared about above everything else.

Dean.

"I've been looking for you," she said.

He fumbled his drink, trying to shift the brownie on his napkin to the same hand. He recovered though, before looking up at her with a sheepish grin. "I've been around."

"I already saw your sister and your mother," she said. "And might I say your mother is in a rare good mood today. We actually had a civilized conversation."

He nodded, impressed. "It must be a miracle," he said. "Though it is _your_ party. It would be something if she came and insulted you here. Even for my mother."

"True. Perhaps I should be grateful, then, that this _is_ my party," Rory said. "Because I'm about done with confrontations for awhile. Between your mother and Nancy Benton, I think I've had my fill."

"Somehow, I doubt that," he said. "You may not crave them by any stretch of the imagination, but you're a girl who knows what you're after. That's something I like about you. Ceaseless in your pursuits, whatever they may be. And, between you and me, my mother and Nancy Benton have it coming to them, most of the time."

"Really, I think the last thing I need is someone _else_ stroking my ego," she said. "Have you forgotten that this is my party?"

Dean glanced around at the decorations, his eyes lingering on the large _Congratulations, Rory! _banner. "I think that'd be a little difficult to do," he said.

She winced a little, really taking in the decadent display of self-celebration. "Well, subtle, my mother is not."

He looked down, kicking his foot absently at the ground. "I can't really stay long," he said. He looked up at her briefly, offering a small grin. "Work, you know. Well, you _will_ know. Now that you're in charge of a business, you'll see just why I'm as hard to get ahold of as I am."

"The many responsibilities of the American entrepreneur," Rory mused. "You've been a great example. Especially when it comes how _not _to deal with the stress."

He laughed. "Yeah, no popping pills for you," he said. "But somehow I doubt that'll be a problem."

She looked a bit incredulous. "Do you _remember_ the way I obsessed when I was applying for college?"

"You were the better person for it," he said softly, and his eyes lifted again to hers and stayed there, flickering with memories. He swallowed nervously. "I'm glad you're staying."

Her heart skipped a beat. Her mouth went dry and her mind couldn't settle on a coherent thought.

"I know it's been...weird," he continued. "With...everything. I mean, all those years of on again and off again, who would have thought we'd end up here?"

Certainly not Rory. It'd never even crossed her mind. In her plans of climbing, of gaining, of conquering, the idea of Stars Hollow and Dean had never even been a blip on her radar. Happy memories, yes. Good times, sure. But the _past_. Stepping stones.

And yet, being here, was so right. So right. Her and Stars Hollow and _Dean_.

"It is rather remarkable," she agreed. "Had I known, I probably could have saved the Ivy League tuition costs."

"Nah," he said. "Somehow I don't think that would have made you happy."

"Well, sometimes we think things will make us happy, like _big_ things, like _changing _things, and what we really don't get at all is that _things_ don't make us happy."

He was watching her with those eyes, that look. He nodded. "We have to make ourselves happy," he said. He paused, his brow furrowing. "It's been a long time, I think, since I've been happy. With everything after high school--with Lindsay, with school, with my dad, with the stereo shop--I kind of thought I would never get it. Like happiness was never for me."

It hurt to hear that. Hurt to hear it and hurt more to know the role she'd played in all of it. That she'd been there at the beginning and she'd never stopped to think about it. That she'd listened to him stand there and say he didn't belong and hadn't contradicted him. She didn't have to love him to be a friend to him and yet she'd failed him when he had needed her most.

She hadn't deserved him then. She still didn't deserve him now.

She still had to try. She would always try. Because sometimes first loves were true loves. Sometimes love surprised you. Sometimes love was something you didn't know you had until it fell flat on its face. "Dean, you've always deserved happiness. You've always deserved so much more than you've gotten."

He offered up a half smile. "It's okay," he said. "I get it now. I sort of can appreciate what all of it has taught me."

The question was on her lips. The thing she _needed _to know. Instead, she asked, "Are you happy now?"

His eyes held hers. "Yeah," he said. "I think maybe I am. Are you?"

Her eyes wandered to the party, to the decorations and the food and the guests. People who cared about her enough to celebrate her successes as if it were their own. A mother who loved her enough to go through all this.

When her eyes found Dean again, she suddenly knew the answer to her real question. Dean was happy. He was happy with his family, at home, running the stereo store. He was happy right where he was, right as he was. He was happy _alone_.

They'd be friends, she didn't doubt that. They'd be friendly and they'd talk and maybe they'd get ice cream, but Dean didn't _need_ her. Not like he had. Not like she wanted him to.

And the next question was if that was okay or not? Did Dean define her? Did his love make or break this decision?

She'd told herself all along it didn't.

It was harder to swallow now.

But she had the perfect job. She had the perfect home. She had the perfect family.

"Of course I am," she told him. "Of course I am."

True as it was, that didn't make it hurt any less when Dean gave her a friendly smile and a warm nod. "I'm glad," he said, just like he was talking to her mother, to Luke, to any multitude of _friends_.

"Enjoy the party," she heard herself saying. "And steer clear of the rum cake if you don't want to get buzzed."

"Thanks for the advice," he said. "I'm kind of fond of the brownies, anyway. If I don't get to see you again tonight, congratulations again."

"Thanks," she said. "I'll call you later, okay?"

"Sure thing," he said. "Now, you better go mingle. I think I see Miss Patty eyeing you suspiciously."

"What's she going to do? I own the paper now, so it's not like anything can be printed in the social pages that I don't approve of."

"Such power," he commented. "Use it well."

"You know me," she said.

He offered her a smile. "My point exactly."

And it was friendly and it was warm and it was good and it would have to be enough.

-o-

Parties in Stars Hollow were rare things. Well, not parties in and of themselves. There were enough of those. Every child's birthday was commemorated by one. Even the occasional surprise party for the unsuspecting adult. A few anniversary celebrations. A smattering of engagement soirees.

Oh, and there were _parties_ of the mom-and-dad-gone-for-the-weekend variety, which had never been Rory's favorites because high schoolers and beer meant sex and fighting and Rory's meager experiences had resulted in the denial of one which led to the cause of another. She had reached the pinnacle of partying with that one time and had never sought a repeat performance.

Nonetheless, parties of the more mature variety were few and far between. Especially ones that involved the entire town. Mostly because, who really wanted the entire town to gather together for one main event? It was sheer chaos and random insanity at every turn. Which was why, Rory figured, that the _last_ event of this magnitude had happened at her going-away bash.

Only Gilmores were crazy enough to attempt such things. Only Gilmores were crazy enough to succeed--relatively speaking, anyway. If success was a town full of well-fed and well-mixed people.

Last time, she'd had the luxury of catching an early bus out the next day.

This time, not so much.

"We should move," she announced, surveying the ruin of their yard.

Lorelai looked up from her slumped position on a lawn chair. "What? This?" she asked. "We'll just have to hire out the Mackenzie boys and have them haul it all out with their dad's pickup."

Rory scanned the assembly of chairs and tables, and the trash bins nearly stuffed with paper plates and cups. Sookie's grand buffet had been ravished and left in shambles, only a few sparse remains littering the table tops. "Where did we get all the chairs?"

Her mother shrugged. "All this mess and you're worried about _chairs_?"

That was a thought, but so was the fact that their backyard was nearly overrun with the white folding pieces. "Yes, but we can't throw out the chairs," Rory pointed out. "Nor can we just leave them indefinitely outside while we gather our own resolve to clean up. So I figure the chairs are actually very important. Not that the trash isn't, but it's our trash today or tomorrow or whenever, but those chairs are another story."

"We rented them," her mother said.

"That's why they look like chairs from a wedding."

"Well, you do know there's only one rental company in town and all they have to offer is white generic chairs. Perfect for weddings, bar-mitzvahs, birthday parties, you name it. A chair is a chair, after all."

Rory shifted in hers. "They're not very comfortable, though."

Her mother just rolled her eyes. "You'll notice that you weren't aware of that until now."

"So?"

"So, that just proves the point that any party worth renting chairs for better not actually _use_ the chairs much or it's not a very good party. People should be up and mingling, not sitting and hiding. Relaxation was not our aim tonight."

"Good thing," Rory said. "These things put your butt to sleep within five minutes."

"Very effective for weddings, I'd think," her mother said. "You've got to have something to keep you occupied during all those darned _I do's_."

Rory let her head loll back as she slouched lower, looking up at the sky. It was dark now, the stars obscured by the strings of lights that still glowed, strung throughout the yard. It was picturesque, she thought. Something from a movie. One of those moments. Those perfect moments.

Almost, anyway. Except she was sitting there with her mother discussing chairs.

"You're awfully cynical," she replied finally. "Weddings are supposed to be beautiful."

"A beautiful waste of time, more like it," Lorelai scoffed.

"Says the woman who nearly walked down the aisle several times."

"_Nearly_ being the operative word," her mother said. "And the time I did was beautifully low key. All that pomp and circumstance--so not worth it."

"That's graduation."

"Same idea," her mother said dismissively. "You put all that time and effort into a single day, working so hard to make it perfect."

"And that's bad because?"

"Because it's silly," her mother said. "You can't _make_ it perfect. You shouldn't have to. The dress, the shoes, the hair--"

"The chairs--"

"The chairs," her mother agreed. "None of that matters. What matters is the person you're with. That's what it's about. Two people, connecting, reaffirming that connection. Everything else is just a distraction. Like we think we can hide all the flaws and imperfections with a swath of white cloth and really expensive food."

Rory considered this. She thought about how hard she'd planned for things in her life, how hard she'd worked to make things perfect. Her schooling, her career, her life. Almost scripted versions of who she wanted to be.

Funny how the things that mattered most were the things she'd never planned for.

How she'd ended up back in Stars Hollow. How she'd bought the paper. How she'd fallen for Dean.

And there, it came back to that question of fate, of whether or not some things were just meant to be, and how Rory wasn't sure how to find out.

"So, there's nothing we can do then?" Rory asked, almost a little afraid of the answer.

"Nothing we can do about what?" her mother asked, looking over at her, brow furrowed.

Rory shrugged a little, trying to downplay her nerves. "About life and love and all of that."

"Didn't we already have this conversation?"

They had had many conversations. Too many to remember. That kind of seemed right, like the way it should be between mothers and daughters and especially between Gilmores. "When?"

"Back at the inn," her mother said. "When we were looking at the wall, thinking about the painting. You asked me about fate."

It seemed so long ago, a lifetime. About how things happened, life happened, but she still made her own choices and those choices mattered.

She'd chosen to stay. She'd chosen to buy the paper. She'd chosen _Dean_ and there still was _nothing_. That was the hard part. When she was making all the right choices, all the choices she could, and fate seemed stacked against her still. "But what happens when we do everything we can, try to do things _right_ and the outcome still isn't what we want? That's fate, isn't it? The universe working against us in some sordid cosmic plan?"

"The negative version of it, I suppose," her mother said. Then she sat up straight, looking seriously at Rory. "Honey, you know you can't let it define you."

"Let what define me?"

"Feelings," she said. "I mean, you can control so much in your life. I've seen you since you've come home, and it's been like watching you grow up all over again. The things you've learned, the things you've accomplished--and I'm not just talking about the career stuff. You've never exactly been totally in touch with your emotions, but I've seen you reach this really amazing place. You're so secure now, almost. Just know you can't change other people. They've got to make their choices just as much as you make yours. We can only change ourselves, which, you know, kind of sucks sometimes. But that doesn't change how proud I am of you."

"Are you sure?"

At that, her mother narrowed her eyes. "Rory, you do know that I'd be proud of you no matter what you did."

It was as reassuring as it was disappointing. "So basically your pride means nothing?"

"You mock my pride?" 

"No, it's just that if you're as proud of me for staying in Stars Hollow as, well, if I became a big-time art thief, then really what does that say about how you feel?"

"That is far too much thinking for this time of night--"

"I'm serious," Rory said. "Did I do the right thing? I've had so few people in my life who I look up to, who _mattered_. Of everyone who is around me, I still look to you. I'll probably always look to you to make sure that I'm not totally off the mark."

A smile warmed her mother's face. "You are _so _screwed."

Exasperated, Rory sighed, flopping back in her chair. "I'm baring my soul to you!"

"Right, right," her mother said quickly. "And trust me, that means the world to me. Really. It does. I'm being sincere about this. It's just hard to tell when I get going sometimes. Too much sarcasm or something, sort of taints my voice. I think it may be a permanent condition."

"Sincere, like you _are _proud."

"Okay, so I wouldn't be proud of you in _every_ circumstance, though you as an art thief would definitely make the Christmas cards more interesting. But I'm proud of what you do because you do it with everything you have. Sometimes I watch you, Rory. I watch you pursue your dreams, and it's messy and it's crazy and it's ambitious and you _never _let it stop you. And that's what I'm proud of. Not some position you get or some title you earn. But the way you do it. That's what impresses people and always will be. And for the life of me, I can't figure out how I ended up with a daughter like _you_. I mean, I remember giving birth and all and looking at you knowing that you were _mine_, but it's a little different when you see your kid all grown up and making all her own decisions."

There were quips and comebacks for some things. Rory could flippantly ease her way out of a multitude of conversations. But this? Real sincerity? Real feelings? Was still something that was hard for her to grasp, harder still to respond to.

She'd always known her mother loved her. It was just something else to hear it laid out so plainly.

Lorelai sighed, pushing herself up. "You've done good, Rory," she said. "Just remember to take some time to be proud of yourself for what you've done. _Everything_ you've done. How you got here. How you risked everything and did what was best for _you_. I know you talked to Dean tonight. And I know he hasn't said _okay_. That doesn't make him a bad person. But it doesn't make you one either. You can't measure your success by a boyfriend. It's more than that, and I hope you see that."

With that, her mother moved to the door.

"All this good parenting crap is more tiring than it looks," she said, looking back over the yard. "Perhaps I should consider that domestic partnership with Luke after all. Then I could make him clean up all this mess."

"You can make him do it anyway," Rory reminded her.

Her mother grinned one last time. "It's great to have you back," she said.

Rory let that settle for a minute--really settle, nice and firm. To be back. Home. It was still a rather novel idea, one so conventional that she'd never let herself entertain it before. But still, somehow, even after everything, it felt right. Even without Dean, it felt _right_. She smiled slightly, letting the reality of it fill her up. "It's good to be back," she said.

And that was that. She was alone in a yard full of rented chairs on a beautiful night and the best consolation she had was that she'd done the best she could. She'd done the right thing for herself, and she'd made her mother proud. She may have been an adult, but, yeah, that still mattered. More than she could say.

So maybe it came back to the simple fact: you _can't_ always get what you want. She wanted Dean, plain and simple. And maybe he wasn't hers to have. Not anymore. Not after all of this.

_But if you try sometimes, you might just find, you get what you need._

Because in the end, Stars Hollow was where she was meant to be. These people were her people. It was part of her soul. She could travel the world, achieve every great and impossible thing, and it would never make her as completely happy as living here, as being here. Stars Hollow made her complete, almost. It seemed to understand her. She'd never felt more herself, more at peace, than these last few months.

She was finally able to see that--in the end, that was what really mattered. She didn't need to accomplish lofty career goals. She just needed to figure out who she was and what made her happy. Stars Hollow, the Gazette, her family--those were the things she wanted. Those were the things she needed.

_Welcome home, Rory Gilmore_.


	40. Chapter 40

A/N: Okay. So, here it is. The conclusion. First of all, I'd like to reiterate my thanks to those who helped me complete this story. Namely, geminigrl11 for the beta, which was quite an undertaking, and sendintheklowns for the continual cheerleading throughout the process. Also, special thanks to Piratelf, who gave me advice when I needed it. And mostly, to anyone who has spent time reading this, I truly appreciate it. This took a lot of time to write and post so it's good to know that it wasn't all in vain.

A/N: This fic is part of a larger verse, which I do hope to continue. However, I have no idea when I will complete the next fic, so I can't give a good idea of when that will be, but I do hope that when I do get something else up, that I'll see you all again :)

CHAPTER FORTY

Funny thing about life. It sort of always seemed to go on. All the tragedies and victories, small or otherwise, were barely ripples in its existence, a fact that held true even in the melodramatics of small towns. _Especially_ there, Rory thought from time to time. Because, for all the people of Stars Hollow were obsessed with change and what was _new_, they always reverted back to the safe and comfortable and the familiar. That shouldn't have surprised Rory, not after all this time, but she was a little sheepish to admit that she'd never really figured it out until now.

Now that her large acquisition was little more than fleeting gossip. Now that the party was a happy memory. Now that Rory's presence was another staple of life that people could come to expect, seeing her out at events: seeing her cooped up in the Gazette's office, downing her own pot of coffee daily.

And Rory would be the first to acknowledge how simply her life had fallen into that place. Taking over the Gazette was as natural as anything, in a very Gilmore sort of way. The financial side of the paper gave her a headache, and she hated looking at their subscription numbers and figuring out how to keep decent paperboys and girls on a year-round basis. She found, however, that Meredith knew more than the basics of InDesign, and that, in truth, she much preferred such managerial duties.

Which was okay by Rory. She liked page design better than numbers and figures any day of the week.

Besides, she had her hands full figuring out what to cover and how. In all of her journalistic experience, she found that playing Editor in Chief was actually a bit more daunting than she'd ever realized. Ned's very laissez-faire attitude was likely nothing more than a built-up wall of indifference designed to maintain his sanity. Because it was work. A lot of it, too, which really, she supposed, she should have figured. She'd just always assumed that if Ned could do it, anyone could.

Ned really was better than she'd thought.

But so was she. And despite the intricacies of guesstimating word counts and getting reporters on the scene at the right time, she took to it like a fish to water. It made her little anal retentive heart so happy to be in charge of doling out word counts and photo sizes. And arranging them on a page was like an organizational masterpiece. Well, as much as it could be when done in a daily cycle.

Okay, so it was messy and it was hard and it was up and down and all around, but Rory _loved_ it. She loved it. She loved the chaotic nature. She loved that it was a puzzle she had to figure out. She loved that she got to dictate what was covered and how.

And she didn't change as much as anyone would have thought. The mast head did get a much needed overhaul, but she kept the column structure and all the other major fonts the same. The sections were solid, if generic, and she didn't even cut out the Social News page, as much as it hurt her to keep it. There was something oddly gratifying, about publishing who did what where. It kept her in constant motion, anyway, and it made the readers happy.

That didn't mean that everything stayed the same. Editorials became a biweekly event and Rory took to writing a column of her own. She tried to find more _real_ news, things that mattered, and she wasn't afraid of making people mad. Nope, she rather enjoyed it actually, in that self-righteous way of hers. She hadn't forgotten even after all that had happened that she was Rory Gilmore, journalist, carrier of truth, and all that ethical jazz.

As for the office, she found that she didn't have the heart to change it completely. The desks were still the same outdated ones as always and despite Lyman's half-hearted attempts to help, she even kept the configuration the same. What she did do, with Meredith's begrudging help, was to clean them off. What she found in the eclectic mess of papers on top was notes and assignments from the 70s and beyond, some of which she filed meticulously, others of which earned a good laugh and a quick trip to the trash.

Yes, things were settling down for Rory Gilmore, Editor in Chief. She found she actually had to _work_ more and she understood more about why Ned was probably anxious to leave. Mornings were early with preplanning of pages. Design went on throughout the day as work came in, and it was an ever-constant process of flux. Late nights were pulled for that last minute story, for that last minute correction, for Rory was a diligent copy-editor and she knew every letter of text on her pages. A typo was positively tragic to her, and she aimed to rid the paper of them.

It was an impossible task maybe, but one that made her just that much happier and made Lyman just that much more prone to type poorly. Nancy was surprisingly easy to work with--her articles, for all her sass and superiority, were much cleaner than her counterparts' and the woman knew her way around a comma. Dewey was a wild card, but one Rory couldn't help but love, as he tackled the would-be controversies in town without remorse. He was ideal for that, she knew, because he really didn't have much else to lose.

Work was dominating, but Rory got frequent visits from her mother, and she still made daily trips to Luke's for some semblance of a lunch break. She sometimes enlisted Lane to write album reviews, a new feature she was trying out. But maintaining a social life was hard, harder than ever.

Her grandparents had been surprised, to say the least, but Rory could tell they were thrilled with the outcome. Their granddaughter, and editor in chief. It sounded good, and they ordered subscriptions for everyone they knew. At dinner on Fridays, she received weekly quizzes on her distribution stats and a multitude of suggestions for stories to cover. In all, Rory was pretty sure they were just happy that she was still around. They had their bragging rights, but more importantly, they still had weekly dinners as often as Rory could make them.

She talked to Dean, mostly on the phone, though sometimes she caught him at Luke's and they would chat over a sandwich or two. And she supposed it was also a funny thing that happened between them, two old first loves, two probable best friends, who found themselves in the one place they never thought they'd be and both as close and as far apart as they'd ever been.

Yet, they were thriving. The stereo shop was breaking all its sales records and Rory's distribution was even attracting readers from Hartford. And they laughed and they had fun and Rory was starting to believe that this was what fate had intended for all along.

Then one day, the front door opened.

It wasn't an unusual day. She had been there since six, scowling at her computer. The office was half-full. Meredith came promptly every day at eight and Lyman had wandered in around eleven because apparently working at home was too difficult with the kids sometimes. She felt irritable and Meredith kept giving her these _looks_ and Lyman was snarky and she hadn't heard from Dewey and Nancy was determined to double the size of the article on a local scholarship winner. Which was basically business as usual.

So, why she looked at all at the front door was rather a mystery to her. It could have been Nancy, quite easily, as her deadline was near and of all of Rory's loyal employees, Nancy was really the only one who came close to being punctual. It could have been Dewey, even, who probably could have run out of places to haunt for a day. Or her mother, who liked to surprise her at random times, because apparently Rory "needed" it, else she was prone to be lost in the most ridiculously stressful internal diatribes that would render her utterly useless to herself and the world around her.

And yes, she hated when her mother was _right_, though Rory suspected that she was only right because it was a condition that her mother herself had passed onto her.

It could have been Taylor to complain, Kirk to vie for page space, the PTA to lobby for free advertising. Anything, everything, endless possibilities.

Still, when it was Dean who walked through the door, she was pretty much dumbfounded.

Dumbfounded because it was Dean. It was Dean who had stood there and understood _Rosemary's Baby._ Dean who had carried her box and listened to her ramble about cake. Dean who had hopped on a bus to say hi. Dean.

He wasn't a kid anymore. He wasn't skinny, he didn't wear a leather jacket and Rory didn't even know if he still had his bike. He didn't work at Doose's, he wasn't the new kid. He was _Dean_. She knew that, she'd known that for a while, but somehow it just struck her like a fist in the gut, like a frighteningly clear reality that she still craved with every last fiber of her being.

She had never wanted him more. And he had never been so hard to get.

And she was staring.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, glancing around almost nervously. Meredith was eyeing her, a glint of curiosity in her face. Lyman, for his part, was leaned back in his chair, chewing his pen while staring rather conspicuously at her with an air of humor.

Dean grinned a little, quick and uncertain. "I just, well, realized I'd never been here yet," he said. "You know, to see what it is you do. That's something that friends do, right? They know each other."

"Right," she said, not sure where he was going with this.

"Well, it's just that you come been to the stereo shop all the time," he said. He paused, looking at her carefully, before smiling again. "You've been really great about that, you know. Since you've been back and all."

She blushed a little, despite her best efforts not to. She'd made a point of that, almost to correct the fact that she'd neglected it so long ago. She just hadn't realized he'd noticed. "I do love my stereo gear," she said. "I still need to make a decision about that MP3 player."

"Yeah," he said, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his hair. "So, this is it?"

"Yeah," Rory said. "This is it. My entire net worth is now riding in this place. I know it doesn't look like it could possibly be worth that much money, but I replaced my computer and bought a new digital camera. I couldn't get anything done when it took five minutes to process everything and when you're throwing around thousands of dollars, another thousand really isn't so big of deal."

Dean looked around. "It's nice," he said. "You have time to show me around?"

It was hard not to be nervous. She glanced at Meredith, who was still watching with raised eyebrows. And Lyman, who was grinning a positively salacious grin at this point.

"I understand you're busy," Dean said quickly. "I mean, it's the middle of a work day. You've probably got tons to do."

"No," she said. "I mean, yes. I mean, there's always tons to do. It's a newspaper, after all. And it's like, if you don't come to work every day then there's no paper. Which really defeats the purpose of buying a newspaper, if you think about it. So yes, lots of work, but it's always lots of work, so that doesn't really make it a lot anymore, since _a lot_ seems like a somewhat relative term."

He scrunched his brow as he followed her words and Rory wished there was an off button to her own vocal cords. Or maybe a slow down feature on the little thing that was her stream of consciousness. How had she _ever_ managed to _get_ a boyfriend, much less _keep _one?

Did she dare say it? That fate might possibly have a role?

Lucky for her, Dean had always found her neurosis more endearing than annoying, though decidedly still confusing. She had always figured it was just part of who she was and how she was and anyone who loved her, really loved her, had to love that, too. And Dean had loved her more than most.

"Yeah," he said. "Well. If this is a bad time--"

"No!" she said quickly. "Not at all! That was sort of what I was trying to say. Only it came out all wrong. As usual."

He smiled tentatively, relieved. His eyes roamed a bit, taking it in. "Interesting decorating job," he said, noting the mostly barren walls. They were adorned sporadically with news clippings, magazine cutouts. Layouts Rory liked. Articles worth reading. Issues that she was proud of.

"Yeah," she said. "It's a little busy, I guess, but that's why I got a degree in journalism and not interior design."

Moving closer to study one of the walls, he nodded. "Nah, it's perfect," he said. He glanced at her, smiling. "Inspirational, I'm sure. Which is what a full-time newspaper editor would need, I think."

She couldn't help but grin back. Of course he got it. He _always_ got things like that. He always got _her_. "Inspiration for the attention impaired," she offered. "I should market it to kids with ADD. It'd be a huge craze."

"Inevitably," he agreed. "Is that your office?"

Looking back at the open door and the windowed room, she said, "I like to think of the entire thing as my office. My stuff is everywhere and it's hardly off limits. But yeah. When I need to find someplace to close the door and scream, that's the place. I'd use the restroom, but whenever Dewey's around, he's pretty consistent about using it. Every hour on the hour. It's a little creepy really, but hey, you can't fault a guy for being regular. I'm sure he's better for it, but there's only the one, you see. So those days when I bring in doughnuts, we get a little backlogged around ten AM. Luckily, the pet store next door is pretty nice about letting us use theirs."

And she was rambling. Classically. She just couldn't stop. Not ever. And not with Dean standing there at her job, which made her tingle in a way she couldn't explain. They were friends, sure, and they talked and did stuff but he'd never gone out of his way to visit her at work. She knew full well he was supposed to be at work himself, that normally he would be even if Gilbert and his mother were around to cover things. No, this was different. This was like...well, like before. Like when he would surprise her, like when the only thing she saw in his eyes was _her_.

She rambled for many reasons. The nervous excitement of being around the person that she loved was one of them. And if that person was doting on her? Well, then the rambling could only increase.

Lyman seemed to choke on his coffee, then coughed a few times into his hand. She caught Meredith rolling her eyes.

"Wow. I think that was more information than I needed about bathrooms. And about Conrad Dewey."

"Well, maybe any information about bathrooms and Conrad Dewey is too much information."

"Likely," he agreed. Then he paused, nibbling slightly on the inside of his lip. A strand of hair fell across his forehead and she could tell he was thinking. Thinking, like _deciding_. Then he looked up. "Do you want to go get something to drink?"

"We have coffee here," she was saying before she could stop herself. "And soda. In the fridge. I mean. Yeah."

"Oh," Dean said, his eyes going to the half full pot and dirty fridge. "You do." He seemed to swallow hard and it occurred to Rory that if ever the was a time to believe in fate, this was it. She needed fate to overcome the stupidity of herself, to keep Dean talking even when there seemed to be nothing left to say.

She could have said something. She probably should have. But she could feel the moment rising, feel it struggling to be something more, and it made her tingly and nauseous all at once.

"What about Twinkies?" he said suddenly.

"Twinkies?"

He blinked, wide-eyed. "Yeah. I know you like them. Cake. Creamy filling. Really bad for you. Do you have any of those?"

"I can't say that we have any Twinkies," she said. "Some ice cream, possibly. The leftovers from Chinese last night, for sure. But Twinkies? I can't even _remember_ the last time I had a Twinkie."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "You can't even remember? You? You _love_ Twinkies."

"Life was busy while I was away," Rory explained.

"Life can never be too busy for Twinkies."

But it had been. It'd been too busy for Twinkies, for family, for a boyfriend. But not anymore. "I definitely see the error of my ways," she said. "It takes a real friend to point that out."

"Yeah," he said with a smile. "Well, it takes an even better one to rectify it. Can you spare a few minutes?"

She didn't even have to look at Lyman or Meredith. And she didn't even care about the deadline. "Yeah," she replied. "I think can I spare a minute."

-o-

The day was cool outside, the fading summer giving way to spring. The trees were beginning to color, a vast array of hues, orange and red and warm even in the brisk day.

Autumn always had seemed like the end of something, the last throes of a summer wilting away. She supposed there was something sad about that, something a little bittersweet, but walking next to Dean, she couldn't help but think that all endings were beginnings, too. Of what, though, she just wasn't sure.

Dean was quiet, a little edgy maybe, and Rory couldn't quite tell where this was going. What they were doing. Just awkward chitchat, random small talk, before Dean stopped at Doose's.

"Doose's?" she asked. "You're taking me to Doose's? At least when I dragged you away from work, I took you to _real_ eating establishments."

"Hey, we've had lots of good times here," he said. "I spent a better part of my youth trolling these aisles."

"More reason I would think you wouldn't want to come back," Rory said.

"It's the stellar price of produce," he said with a shrug. "Besides, sometimes remembering where we came from isn't such a bad thing, is it?"

"If we wish to relive the awkward years, I guess," she said. "A little masochistic, but to each their own, dear Narcolepsy boy."

He laughed. "I haven't heard that one in years," he said. "I really screwed up that night. I really screwed up a lot of things."

"We both did," she said. "I think it's an unwritten rule of growing up: you have to screw up at least as much as you get right. Otherwise, you never get any respect from the other adults who have stood up under their own equally stupid humiliations."

"And you think I'm masochistic," he said. "I would think it's more that every experience helps us learn, helps us change. Who would we be if we hadn't lived through all of that?"

It was a thought, and one she had pondered in her decision to stay here. The what-ifs, the near-things, all of it. What made her who she was. What choices defined her, changed her life. What moments still mattered. "Hey," she said suddenly, "we're in the aisle with the ant poison!"

Dean frowned, looking around. "Yeah, and I thought we wanted Twinkies. Those are two aisles over, but you know if you prefer ant poison--"

"No," she said. "I just...this is a good aisle."

He paused and looked at her, really looked at her, good and hard. There was that look in his eyes, that same _look_. That one she remembered while cleaning out her locker all those years ago. That twinkle, those dimples, the sense of certainty in his voice. The banter, it was back. Everything, just as it was.

And suddenly, she was sixteen in Doose's, making fun of him for saying pop, and he was wearing a green smock as he leaned over and kissed her.

Her first kiss.

Standing there, Doose's wasn't so different. Groceries lining the shelves, waxed linoleum that Taylor fretted over. Even harsh fluorescent lighting and boxes of baking soda nearby.

Standing there, somehow they were.

And yet, it was like they'd never left.

This time, when his lips met hers, all the sparks were still the same. And she remembered: the excitement, the newness, how much he'd _loved_ her, and how much she had taken for granted. How he made her feel. All her dreams, all her fantasies, all the things she _wanted_ rolled right into one. One perfect kiss. One perfect moment.

When he pulled away, he was looking at her, that same hopeful look on his face.

The first time, she'd run away.

This time--this time, she smiled at him. "I owe you more than a thank you for that," she said.

He laughed. "Yeah? And what do you think you owe me?"

She grinned, putting her hands around his neck and leaning up on her toes. "This," she whispered, her mouth right next to his, closing her eyes as their lips met again.

When they parted, his hands rested on the small of her back and he was looking down into her eyes. "This time, I think maybe I need to thank you," he said. "But I promise not to run away."

"Well, that's much appreciated," she said, feeling comfortable in his arms. "But why do you need to thank me?"

"For waiting," he said.

She cocked her head. "Waiting for what?"

"For me," he told her. "I wasn't ready. I wasn't sure. After everything, I think I was scared of who we'd be together. You've always made me do things I can't understand. You've always made me crazy in the best and worst of ways. I didn't know how to deal with that. I didn't want to deal with that. But you--you've changed. You've changed so much and I'm so glad you were willing to wait for me to see that."

He was thanking her. He was _thanking _her. After everything, after all she'd done to him, after all she'd _learned_ from him, he was thanking her. "Dean," she said. "You do realize that a lot of this is because of you."

It was his turn to look confused.

She nodded readily. "This _change_ in me. It's because of you. I came back and thought it was all the same. That everything would be just like it was. And when it wasn't, I didn't know how to deal with it. I almost ran away from it all because it was just too much to figure out. But you--what you've done, it's more than anything I've ever accomplished. We should be throwing parties for _you_. For going to college, for coming back home when your family needed you, for turning around the stereo shop when you never wanted to run it to begin with."

At this, he chuckled. "You forget one thing," he said.

She was forgetting something? How could she be forgetting something? Dean had done so much, he'd achieved more than she ever could in all the ways that mattered, he'd helped her figure out herself--

"You're Rory Gilmore," he said, moving his hands to her neck and letting his fingers run through her hair. "Rory Gilmore gets parties. She gets attention and love and respect because she's probably the best thing that's ever happened to Stars Hollow."

She eyed him, almost suspicious. But his tone was light, airy, and his eyes were roving over her face with that _look_ of his. That look she'd taken for granted. That look like she was the only thing that mattered, like she was the only thing he could see. That look she'd wondered if she'd ever see again.

And she realized that the words he was speaking, wasn't just paying lip service. He believed it.

The feeling that swelled up inside of her was that same giddy excitement of a sixteen year old. It was better than Jess, it was better than Logan, it was better than all the parties in the world.

It was the feeling of being loved. Deep and unconditionally.

She tightened her grip around him, letting her body ease closer into him. "But you're Dean Forester," she said. "And you deserve all those things, too."

He just grinned. "Yeah, but I don't want them."

"Oh yeah?" she asked. "What do you want?"

"I just want you."

"You know you can't always get what you want," she said.

He leaned down, his lips close to hers. "Yeah," he whispered, a breath away from kissing her. "But sometimes you do."

As he kissed her again, she couldn't have agreed more.

_end_


End file.
